BRITISH POEMS 



llOM "CANTERBURY TALES" 
TO "RECESSIONAL" 





Book__ 



Goipght)^". 



COFVRICHT DEPOSm 



BRITISH POEMS 

FROM "canterbury TALES" TO "RECESSIONAL" 



BRITISH POEMS 

ROM ''CANTERBURY TALES" TO "RECESSIONAL' 



EDITED BY 

PERCY ADAMS HUTCHISON, Ph.D. 

FORMERLY INSTRUCTOR IN ENGLISH, HARVARD UNIVERSITY 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1912 



S-* 

-&\^ 



Copyright, 1912, by 
CHARLES SCRIBNERS SONS 




gCl.A319427 



TO THE MEMORY 

OF 

MY MOTHER 



PREFACE 

It has been my endeavor in preparing this anthology to pre- 
sent, as adequatel}' as might be possible within the limits of a 
handy volume, the best in Great Britain's non-dramatic poetry 
from Chaucer to Kipling, and this without exaggerating or min- 
imizing the importance of any poet or period. 

The unusual resources of the Harvard library, in point of first 
editions, reprints, and definitive editings, have made it possible 
for me to obtain always an authoritative text, and in not a few 
instances to correct errors. As I have chosen to keep the pages 
free from foot-notes (except for glosses on words not found in 
modern English dictionaries) I have not, as a rule, indicated the 
source of a text. 

The too common practice of printing isolated stanzas as if they 
were complete poems is one from which I have refrained. Nor 
have I sought to improve a poet's work by excising weak lines 
or stanzas. If a poem is not printed in its entirety, the fact is 
noted. The only poem from which any integral part has been 
omitted without apprising the reader of the fact is The Prio- 
resses Tale of Chaucer, which has been shorn of a final stanza 
expressive of a race-hatred fortunately now abated and better 
forgotten. For excerpts, a title descriptive of the subject-matter 
of the extract has been provided, and at the close is given the 
title of the poem from which the extract is drawn, and also the 
location of the part within the whole. In a few cases only, when 
a poem would require more space than could be afforded it, I 
have allowed myself to make an abridgment. To distinguish 
abridgments from excerpts, I have preserved to them the title of 
the original, and printed at the end, "From the poem of the same 
title." An exception is the excerpt-abridgment from A Mirror 
FOR Magistrates. 

It has made for uniformity' to designate sonnets from se- 
quences by the word "Sonnets" merely, and when the sequence 

vii 



viii PREFACE 

possessed a title to indicate it after the last sonnet. Unless for 
adequate cause, modern spellings have been adopted; and, ex- 
cept for reasons that will be obvious, poets follow chronological 
order of birth rather than of production. The selections under 
each poet have been arranged chronologically with occasional 
exceptions (when such exceptions would not be of moment) if 
a slight change of sequence would produce a more pleasing 
arrangement of the pages. 

I wish to acknowledge my indebtedness to Professors George 
Lyman Kittredge, William Allan Neilson, and Barrett Wendell, 
of Harvard University, for the interest they have taken in the 
book, and for valuable suggestions: 

To Professor George Herbert Palmer, also of Harvard, not only 
for the interest he has shown, but also for the generous way in 
which at all times he has given me access to his wide collection 
of rare editions: 

To Professor Henry MacCracken, of Yale University, for the 
text of a recently discovered poem by John Lydgate: 

To Miss Lydia Adams Richardson, of the Rock Ridge School, 
for assistance in preparing the manuscript for the press: 

To Mr. Rudyard Kipling and to Messrs. Doubleday, Page 
and Company for permission to reprint The Last Chantey: 

And to Mr. Rudyard Kipling for permission to reprint Re- 
cessional. 

P. A. Hutchison. 
Cambridge, Mass., 
June, 1912. 



CONTENTS 



FAGB 



Geoffrey Chaucer (1340P-1400) 

From the Canterbury Tales: 

The Pilgrims 1 

The Prioresses Tale 7 

Balade De Bon Conseyl ......... c 13 

John Lydgate (1370P-1451?) 

The Child Jesus to Mary the Rose 14 

Robert Henryson (1425?-?) 

TheBludySerk 15 

William Dunbar (1460.^-1520?) 

To a Ladye 19 

John Skelton (1460?-1529) 

To Mistress Margaret Hussey 20 

English and Scottish Popul.\r Ball.\ds 

Sir Patrick Spens 21 

The Douglas Tragedy » 22 

The Death and Burial of Robin Hood 25 

The Hunting of the Cheviot 27 

The Daemon Lover 36 

Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542) 

The Lover to His Mistress 39 

To His Unkind Mistress 39 

The Lover Complaineth 40 

The Lover Like to a Ship Tossed on the Sea .... 42 

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517?-1547) 

Spring 42 

The Means to Attain Happy Life . . . . . . . 43 

George Gascoigne (1525?-1577) 

The Arraignment of a Lover 43 

ix 



X CONTENTS 



PAGE 



Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst (1536-1608) 
From the Induction to a Mirror for Magistrates: 

The Goddess of Sorrow Showeth the Poet Hell . 45 

Nicholas Breton (1545P-1626?) 

PhyUida and Corydon 48 

Sir Walter Raleigh (1552P-1618) 

His Pilgrimage 49 

Verses ^1 

Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586) 

Sonnets from Astrophel and Stella : 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the 

skies! 51 

Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, 51 
Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be, . . 52 
No more, my Dear, no more these counsels try; 52 

Philomela 53 

Dorus to Pamela 54 

Sonnet : 

Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust; . 54 

Edmund Spenser (1552-1599) 

Prothalamion 55 

Sonnets from Amoretti: 

More than most faire, full of the living fire . . 60 
Lyke as a ship, that through the ocean wyde, . 60 
Men call you fayre, and you doe credit it, ... 60 

From the Faerie Queene: 

Lucifera Rideth forth from the House of Pride . 61 
The Pageant of Mutabilitie who Maintaineth she 

Ruleth all Things ". 70 

Mutability Subject to Eternity 75 

John Lyly (1554 ?-1 606) 

Apelles' Song 76 

Thomas Lodge (1558?-1625) 

Rosalynd's Madrigal 76 



CONTENTS xi 

PAGE 

George Peele (1558P-1597?) 

Duet 77 

George Chapman (1o59?-1634) 

Of Man , 78 

Robert Greene (1560P-1592) 

Sephestia's Song 78 

Robert Southwell (1561?-159o) 

The Burning Babe 79 

Samuel Daniel (1562-1619) 
From Sonnets to Delia: 

Sleep o . . 80 

Michael Drayton (1563-1631) 

From the sonnet-sequence Idea: 

Love's Farewell 81 

Ballad of Agincourt o 81 

Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593) 

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love 85 

From Hero and Leander: 

Description of Hero 86 

Richard Barnfield (1574-1627) 

An Ode 87 

William Shakspere [1564-1616) 

From Venus and Adonis: 

Venus Bewaileth the Death of Adonis . . . , 89 

Lyrics from the Plays: 

Silvia 93 

Under the Greenwood Tree 93 

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind 94 

O Mistress Mine 95 

Lament 95 

Take, O, Take Those Lips Away 96 

Hark! Hark! the Lark! 96 

Dirge 96 



CONTENTS 



Where the Bee Sucks ...» o ... . 

A Sea Dirge » 

Sonnets : 

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? . . 
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes 
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought . 
When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced 
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless 



That time of year thou mayst in me behold 
How like a winter hath my absence been . 
Let me not to the marriage of true minds . 
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 

Thomas Nashe (15C7-1601) 

Spring 



Thomas Campion (1o67?-1619) 

Cherry-Ripe 

When to Her Lute Corinna Sings 

A Renunciation 

The Man of Life Upright . . . 
Sic Transit Gloria Mundi . . . 



PAGE 

97 

98 

98 
98 
99 
99 

100 
100 
100 
101 
101 



102 

102 
103 
103 
104 
105 

105 
106 



Sir Henry Wotton (1568-1639) 

The Character of a Happy Life 

Sir John Davies (1569-1626) 
From Nosce Teipsum: 

True Knowledge of the Soul ...... 

Thomas Dekker (1570?-1641) 

Song 107 

Rustic Song 107 

Ben Jonson (1573P-1637) 

Song to Celia 109 

Hymn to Diana 109 

The Triumph of Charis 110 

Echo's Lament of Narcissus Ill 

Song Ill 

An Hvmn to God the Father 112 



CONTENTS xiii 



PAGE 



John Donne (1573-1631) 

Song 113 

The Dream 114 

Love's Deity . 115 

The Funeral 116 

The Will 116 

A Hymn to God the Father 118 

Forget 119 

Death 119 

John Fletcher (1579-16^25) 

Song to Bacchus 120 

Weep No More 120 

Aspatia's Song 121 

Francis Beaumont (1584-1616) 

Lines on the Tombs in Westminster 121 

Giles Fletcher (1585?-1623) 

From Christ's Triumph After Death: 

Nature Awaiteth the Triumph of Christ . . . 122 

John Webster (1580P-1625?) 

Dirge 124 

Three Anonymous Lyrics 

I. O waly, waly up the bank, 124 

11. My Love in her attire doth shew her wit, . 125 

HI. Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting . . 126 

William Drummond (1585-1649) 

Summons to Love 126 

Human Folly 127 

Saint John Baptist 128 

George Wither (1588-1667) 

The Lover's Resolution 128 

William Browne (1591-1643) 

Man 129 

On a Rope-Maker Hanged .130 

On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke 130 



xiv CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Robert Herrick (1591-1674) 

Cherry-Ripe 131 

How Roses Came Red 131 

Sweet Disorder 131 

Upon Julia's Clothes 132 

To the Virgins to Make Much of Time 132 

To Daffodils 133 

A Night Piece , . 133 

A Thanksgiving to God for His House 134 

Corinna's Going A-Majang 136 

Upon Prew His Maid 138 

Francis Quarles (1592-1644) 

An Ecstasy 138 

George Herbert (1593-1633) 

Virtue 139 

The Collar 139 

The Quip 140 

The Pulley 141 

Divine Love 142 

Love's Answer 143 

James Shirley (1596-1666) 

The Glories of Our Blood and State , 143 

Thomas Carew (1598P-1639?) 

Song 144 

Ingrateful Beauty Threatened 145 

An Epitaph 146 

William Habington (1605-1654) 

To Roses in the Bosom of Castara 146 

Sir William Davenant (1606-1668) 

Song 147 

Abraham Cowley (1618-1667) 

Drinking 147 

The Wish 148 

On the Death of Mr. William Hervey 149 



CONTENTS XV 

PAGE 

Sir John Denham (1615-1669) 
From Cooper's Hill: 

The River Thames . 151 

Edmund Waller (1606-1687) 

To Phyllis 152 

On a Girdle 153 

Go, Lovely Rose 153 

Sir John Suckling (1609-1642) 

A Refusal of Martyrdom 154 

The Constant Lover 155 

Why So Pale and Wan 156 

William Cartwright (1611-1643) 

On a Virtuous Young Gentlewoman that Died Sud- 
denly 156 

Richard Crashaw (1613?-1649) 

The Flaming Heart upon the Book and Picture of the 

Seraphical Saint Teresa 157 

Richard Lovelace (1618-1658) 

To Lucasta on Going to the Wars 158 

To Lucasta on Going Beyond Seas 158 

To Althea from Prison 159 

Henry Vaughan (1622-1695) 

The Retreat 160 

Departed Friends 161 

The World 163 

John Milton (1608-1674) 

L'Allegro 165 

II Penseroso 169 

Lycidas 173 

On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 179 

On His Blindness 179 

On His Deceased Wife 180 

From Paradise Lost: 

The Fallen Hosts in Hell 180 



xvi CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Andrew Marvell (1621-1G78) 

Song of the Emigrants in Bermuda 186 

The Garden 187 

Sir Charles Sedley (lf)39?-1701) 

ToCelia 189 

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (16-17-1680) 

Constancy 190 

On Charles II 190 

John Dryden (1631-1700) 

A Song for St. Cecilia's Day 191 

Alexander's Feast; or, the Power of Music .... 193 

Milton 198 

William Congreve (1670-1729) 

Amoret 198 

Lady AVinchilsea (1661-1720) 

To the Nightingale 199 

Matthew Prior (1664-1721) 

To a Child of Quality Five Years Old 200 

Cupid Mistaken 201 

The Dying Adrian to His Soul 201 

Epigrams : 

I. I Sent for RatcliflFe 202 

II. For His Own Tomb-stone 202 

Jonathan Swift (1667-1745) 

The Beasts' Confession 202 

Ambrose Philips (167o?-1749) 

To Miss Charlotte Pulteney, in Her Mother's Arms . 208 

Alexander Pope (1688-1744) 

Solitude 209 

From an Essay on Criticism: 

True Wit 210 

From an Essay on Man: 

Epistle I 213 



CONTENTS xvii 

PAGE 

John Gay (1685-1732) 

The Hare With Many Friends 221 

James Thomson (1700-1748) 

From the Castle of Indolence: 

The Castle of Indolence 223 

From the Seasons: 

Hymn 225 

John Dyer (1700-1758) 

GrongarHill 228 

Edward Young (1681-17G5) 
From Night Thoughts : 

Man 232 

William Shenstone (171l!-1763) 

The Dying Kid 235 

From the Schoolmistress: 

The Schoolmistress 236 

William Collins (1721-1759) 

Ode Written in 1746 238 

Dirge 238 

Ode to Evening 239 

Ode to Liberty 241 

Thomas Gray (1716-1771) 

On a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes 245 

Ode on the Spring 246 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard .... 248 
The Bard \ ..252 

Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774) 

Song 256 

The Deserted Village 257 

Jane Elliot (1727-1805) 

The Flowers of the Forest 268 

Thomas Warton (1728-1790) 

From the Grave of King Arthur: 

Death of King Arthur 269 



xviii CONTENTS I 

PAGE 

William Cowper (1731-1800) 

Epitaph on a Hare 270 

From the Task: 

Evening in Winter 272 ; 

To Mary 274 

On the Receipt of My Mother's Picture .... 275 

Loss of the Royal George 278 

Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770) 

Mynstrelles Songe 280 

J 

George Crabbe (1754-1832) ! 

From the Village: . 

Village Life 281 ; 

Robert Burns (1759-1796) 

Bonie Lesley 285 | 

Ae Fond Kiss 286 j 

My Luve is Like a Red, Red Rose 287 j 

The Banks o' Doon ' 287 j 

Scots, Wha Hae 288 ! 

TamGlen 289 : 

Auld Lang Syne ..290 \ 

Highland Mary 291 < 

To a Mouse 292 \ 

John Anderson, My Jo 294 i 

O, Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast 294 j 

Is There for Honest Poverty 295 j 

William Blake (1757-1827) ' 

To the Muses 296 ] 

Love's Secret 297 

Ah, Sunflower 297 

Auguries of Innocence 297 

The Lamb 298 | 

The Tiger 298 ; 

William Wordsworth (1770-1850) , 

Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey . 299 ! 

She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways 303 i 

A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal 304 ! 



CONTENTS xix 

PAGE 

To the Cuckoo 304 

The SoHtary Reaper 305 

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud 306 

She Was a Phantom of DcH-ht 307 

Elegiac Stanzas 308 

The World Is Too Much With Us 310 

Composed Upon Westminster Bridge 311 

It Is a Beauteous Evening 311 

London 1802 312 

Ode to Duty 312 

Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections 

of Early Childhood . . . / 314 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834) 

Kubla Khan 320 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 321 

The Knight's Tomb 342 

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832) 

Bonny Dundee 342 

From Marmion: 

The Fight on Flodden Field 344 

Robert Southey (1774-1843) 

The Battle of Blenheim 346 

Charles Lamb (1775-1834) 

The Old Familiar Faces 348 

Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864) 

Rose Aylmer 349 

Dirce 349 

The Death of Artemidora 350 

Tolanthe 350 

On Lucretia Borgia's Hair .351 

Iphigeneia and Agamemnon 351 

On His Seventy-fifth Birthday 352 

Thomas Campbell (1777-1844) 

Ye Mariners of England 353 



XX CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Thomas Moore (1779-1852) 

Pro Patria Mori 354 

George Noel Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-1824) 

Maid of Athens, Ere We Part 355 

When We Two Parted 356 

She Walks in Beauty 357 

Sonnet on Chillon 357 

Stanzas for Music 358 

From Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: 

On the Field of Waterloo 358 

From Don Juan : 

The Isles of Greece 361 

Don Juan Soliloquizes 364 

Charles Wolfe (1791-1823) 

The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna .... 367 

John Keats (1795-1821) 

On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer .... 368 

Ode 368 

When I Have Fears 369 

The Eve of Saint Agnes 370 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 380 

Ode to a Nightingale 382 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci 384 

Bright Star 386 

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) 

Music, When Soft Voices Die 386 

Ozymandias 387 

To a Skylark 387 

The Cloud .390 

Ode to the West Wind 393 

To Night 395 

Lines to an Indian Air 396 

Adonais 397 

Dirge ...» 411 

Thomas Hood (1798-1815) 

Fair Ines 412 



CONTENTS xxi 

PAGE 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) 

The Lady of Shalott 413 

The Lotos-Eaters 418 

Ulysses 423 

Tears, Idle Tears 425 

Break, Break, Break 426 

Morte D'Arthur 426 

From In Memoriam A. H. H.: 

Strong Son of God, immortal Love 433 

Calm is the morn without a sound 435 

O, yet we trust that somehow good 435 

Dear friend, far off, my lost desire 437 

Thy voice is on the rolling air 438 

O living will that shall endure 438 

Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington . . . 439 

Flower in the Crannied Wall 446 

Crossing the Bar 447 

Edward Fitzgerald (1809-1883) 

From the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam: 

The Loquacious Vessels 447 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861) 
Sonnets from the Portuguese: 

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand . . 449 

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange . . . 449 

How do I love thee.^ Let me count the ways . 449 

Robert Browning (1812-1889) 
Two Songs: 

I. Heap cassia, sandal-buds, and stripes . . . 450 

11. The year's at the spring 451 

Home-Thoughts, from Abroad 451 

My Last Duchess 452 

Meeting at Night .453 

The Last Ride Together 454 

A Toccata of Galuppi's 457 

Abt Vogler 459 

Rabbi Ben Ezra 463 



xxii CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Prospice 469 

Epilogue 470 

Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-1861) 

Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth 471 

Qui Laborat, Orat 471 

Where Lies the Land? 472 

Charles Kingsley (1819-1875) 

The Sands of Dee 473 

Matthew Arnold (1822-1888) 

Requiescat 474 

The Future 474 

The Forsaken Merman 477 

Dover Beach 481 

. Thyrsis 482 

Worldly Place 489 

Sidney Dobell (1824-1874) 

England to America 489 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882) 

The Blessed Damozel 490 

Sonnets from the House of Life: 

Lovesight 494 

Inclusiveness 494 

True Woman 495 

Known in Vain 495 

Body's Beauty 496 

Retro Me Sathana 496 

A Superscription 497 

Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909) 

Shakspere 497 

When the Hounds of Spring 498 

A Forsaken Garden 499 

Love at Sea 502 

Hymn to Proserpine 503 



CONTENTS xxiii 

PAGE 

Coventry Patmore (1825-1896) 

The Revelation 508 

The Spirit's Epochs 508 

George Meredith (1828-1909) 

Lucifer in Starlight 509 

Love's Death 509 

Love in the Valley 510 

Christina Rossetti (1830-1894) 

Song 516 

Up-hill . 516 

William Morris (1834-1896) 

The Gilliflower of Gold 517 

The Haystack in the Floods 519 

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) 

The Land of Counterpane 524 

My Wife 524 

Requiem 525 

RuDYARD Kipling (1865-) 

The Last Chantey 525 

Recessional 528 

Index of Authors 529 

Index of First Lines 531 



BRITISH POEMS 

FROM "CANTERBURY TALES" TO "RECESSIONAL" 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER [1340P-1400] 

THE PILGRIMS 

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote^ 

The droghte of Marche hath perced" to the roote. 

And bathed every veyne in swich^ lieour, 

Of which vertu engendred is the flour; 

Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth 

Inspired hath in every holt^ and heeth 

The tendre croppes,'' and the yonge sonne 

Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne, 

And smale fowles maken melodye, 

That slepen al the night with open ye, 

(So priketh hem nature in hir corages ) : 

Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, 

(And palmers for to seken straunge strondes,) 

To feme halwes, couthe' in sondry londes; 

And specially, from every shires ende 

Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende. 

The holy blisful martir for to seke. 

That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke. 

Bifel that, in that sesoun on a day. 
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay 
Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage 
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage. 
At night was come in-to that hostelrye 
Wel^ nyne and twenty in a compaignye, 
Of sondry folk, by aventure y-falle 
In felawshipe, and pilgrims were they alle, 

- pierced. ^ such. ^ wood. ^ young shoots. ^ hearts. 

'' known. * full. 



BRITISH POEMS 

That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde; 
The chambres and the stables weren wyde. 
And wel we weren esed atte beste. 
And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste, 
So hadde I spoken with hem everichon, 
That I was of hir felawshipe anon, 
And made forward erly for to ryse, 
To take our wey, ther as I yow devyse. 

But natheles, whyl I have tyme and space, 
Er that I ferther in this tale pace, 



Me thinketh it acordaunt to resoun, ' 

To telle yow al the condicioun ' 

Of ech of hem, so as it semed me, ; 

And whiche they weren, and of what degree; ! 

And eek in what array that they were inne: : 
And at a knight than wol I first biginne. 

A Knight ther was, and that a worthy man. 
That fro the tyme that he first bigan I 

To ryden out, he loved chivalrye, ' 

Trouthe and honour, fredom^ and curteisye. 
Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre,^^ 1 

And thereto^ ^ hadde he riden (no man ferre^^) | 

As wel in Cristendom as hethenesse, 

And evere honoured for his worthinesse. i 

At Alisaundre he was, whan it was wonne; j 

Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne^^ 
Aboven alle naciouns in Pruce. 
In Lettow hadde he reysed and in Ruce, 
No Cristen man so ofte of his degree. 
In Gernade at the sege eek hadde he be 
Of Algezir, and riden in Belmarye. 
At Lyeys was he, and at Satalye, 
Whan they were wonne; and in the Crete See 
At many a noble aryve hadde he be. 
At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene, 
And foughten for our feith at Tramissene 

liberality. '"war. "besides. '^farther. 

'* sat at the head of the table. 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER 

In llstes thryes, and ay slayn his foo. 

This ilke worthy knight hadde been also 

Somtyme with the lord of Palatye, 

Ageyn another hethen in Turkye: 

And everemore he hadde a sovereyn prys. 

And though that he were worthy, he was wys. 

And of his port as meek as is a mayde. 

He nevere yet no vileinye^^ ne sayde 

In al his lyf, un-to no maner wight. 

He was a verray parfit gentil knight. 

But for to tellen yow of his array, 
His hors were gode, but he was nat gay; 
Of fustian he wered a gipoun 
Al bismotered with his habergeoun, 
For he was late y-come from his viage 
And wente for to doon his pilgrymage. 

Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, 
That of hir smyling was ful simple and coy; 
Hir gretteste ooth was but by seynt Loy; 
And she was cleped madame Eglentyne. 
Ful wel she song the service divyne, 
Entuned in hir nose ful semely; 
And Frensh she spak ful faire and fetisly. 
After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, 
For Frensh of Paris was to hir unknowe. 
At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle; 
She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle, 
Ne wette hir fingres in hir sauce depe. 
Wel coude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe. 
That no drope ne fille up-on hir brest. 
In curteisye was set ful moche hir lest. 
Hir over lippe wyped she so clene. 
That in hir coppe was no ferthing sene 
Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte. 
Ful semely after hir mete she raughte, 

" reputation. '^ discvourtesy. '^ i- e., she did not swear at all. 

17 delight. 1* particle. ^^ reached. 



fe BRITISH POEMS 

And sikerly^^ she was of greet disport,^* 

And ful plesaunt, and amiable of port. 

And peyned hir to countrefete chere^^ 

Of court, and been estatlich of manere. 

And to ben holden digne^^ of reverence. 

But, for to speken of hir conscience, 

She was so charitable and so pitous. 

She wolde wepe, if that she sawe a mous 

Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. 

Of smale houndes had she, that she fedde 

With rosted flesh, or milk and wastel breed. 

But sore weep she if oon of hem were deed. 

Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte: 

And al was conscience and tendre herte. 

Ful semely hir wimpel pinched^^ was; 

Hir nose tretys;^'* hir eyen greye as glas; 

Hir mouth ful smal, and ther-to softe and reed; 

But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed. 

It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe; 

For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe. 

Ful fetis was hir cloke, as I was war. 

Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar 

A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene;"'' 

And ther-on heng a broche of gold ful shene. 

On which ther was first write a crowned A, 

And after. Amor vincit omnia. 

A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also. 
That un-to logik hadde longe y-go.^' 
As lene was his hors as is a rake. 
And he was nat right fat, I undertake; 
But loked holwe, and there-to soberly. 
Ful thredbar was his overest courtepy;^^ 
For he had geten him yet no benefyce, 
Ne was so worldly' for to have offyce. 
For him was levere have at his beddes heed 
Twenty bookes, clad in blak or reed 

2° certainly. 21 jjjgtj spirits, 22 jqqI^ pains to imitate courtly manaera. 

" worthy. 24 plaited kerchief. 25 ^gH formed. 

^ a string of beads every eleventh one of which was green. 
^ devoted himself. 28 short coat. 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER 

Of Aristotle and his philosophye, 

Then robes riche, or fithele,"^ or gay sautrye,^^ 

But al be that he was a philosophre, 

Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre; 

But al that he mighte of his frendes hente. 

On bookes and on lerninge he it spente, 

And bisily gan for the soules preye 

Of hem that yaf him where-with to scoleye. 

Of studie took he most cure and most hede. 

Noght o word spak he more than was nede. 

And that was seyd in forme and reverence. 

And short and quik, and ful of hy sentence. 

Sowninge in^^ moral vertu was his speche; 

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche. 

A good Wyf was ther of bisyde Bathe, 
But she was som-del deef , and that was scathe. 
Of cloth-making she hadde swiche an haunt,^^ 
She passed hem of Ypres and of Gaunt. 
In al the parisshe wyf ne was ther noon 
That to the off ring bifore hir sholde goon; 
And if ther dide, certeyn, so wrooth was she. 
That she was out of alle charitee. 
Hir coverchiefs ful fyne were of ground ;^^ 
I dorste swere they weyeden ten pound 
That on a Sonday were upon hir heed. 
Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed, 
Ful streite y-tej^d, and shoos ful moiste and newe. 
Bold was hir face, and fair, and reed of hewe. 
She was a worthy womman al hir Ij've, 
Housbondes at chirche-dore she hadde fyve, 
AVithouten other compaignye in youthe; 
But thereof nedeth nat to speke as nouthe.^* 
And thryes hadde she been at Jerusalem; 
She hadde passed many a straunge streem; 
At Rome she hadde been, and at Boloigne, 
In Galice at seint lame, and at Coloigne. 

29 fiddle. 30 psaltery. ^i tending to. ^' ski 

22 texture. ^4 at present. 



BRITISH POEMS 

She coude muchc of wandring by the weye. 

Gat-tothed^^ was she, soothly for to seye. 

Up-on an amblere csily she sat, 

Y-wimpled wel, and on hir heed an hat 

As brood as is a bokeler or a targe; 

A foot-mantel aboute hir hipes large, 

And on hir feet a paire of spores sharpe. 

In felaweschip wel coude she laughe and carpe.^^ 

Of remedies of love she knew per-chaunce, 

For she coude of that art the olde daunce.^^ 

A good man was ther of religioun, 
And was a povre Persoun^^ of a toun ; 
But riche he was of holy thoght and werk. 
He was also a lerned man, a clerk, 
That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche; 
His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche. 
Benigne he was, and wonder diligent, 
And in adversitee ful pacient; 
And swich he was y-preved ofte sythes.^® 
Ful looth were him to cursen^" for his tythes. 
But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute, 
Un-to his povre parisshens aboute 
Of his offring, and eek of his substaunce. 
He coude in litel thing han sufEsaunce. 
Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer a-sonder. 
But he ne lafte nat, for reyn ne thonder. 
In siknes nor in meschief to visj^te 
The ferreste in his parisshe, muche and lyte,^ 
Up-on his feet, and in his hand a staf. 
This noble ensample to his sheep he yaf. 
That first he wroghte, and afterward he taughte; 
Out of the gospel he tho^^ wordes caughte; 
And this figure he added eek ther-to. 
That if gold ruste, what shal yren do? 
For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste. 



'gap-toothed. ^^ talked. ^Hhe whole game. ^8 parson. ^^ often proved. 

" excommunicate. ^^ great and small. ■*' those. *^ ignorant. 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER 

And shame it is, if a preest take keep,^^ 

A [dirty] shepherde and a clene sheep. 

Wei oghte a preest ensample for to yive, 

By his clennesse, how that his sheep shold live. 

He sette nat his benefice to hyre, 

And leet his sheep encombred in the myre. 

And ran to London, un-to seynt Poules, 

To seken him a chaunterie for soules, 

Or with a bretherhed to been withholde; 

But dwelte at hoom, and kepte wel his folde, 

So that the wolf ne made it nat miscarie; 

He was a shepherde and no mercenarie. 

And though he holy were, and vertuous, 

He was to sinful man nat despitous/^ 

Ne of his speche daungerous^^ ne digne,^' 

But in teching discreet and benigne. 

To drawen folk to heven by fairnesse 

By good ensample, this was his bisynesse: 

But it were any persone obstinat. 

What so he were, of heigh or lowe estat. 

Him wolde he snibben sharply for the nones. 

A bettre preest, I trowe that nowher non is. 

He wayted after no pompe and reverence, 

Ne maked him a spyced** conscience. 

But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, 

He taughte, but first he folwed it him-selve. 

[From The Pbologde to the Cantebbuby Tales.] 



THE PRIORESSES TALE 

Ther was in Asie, in a gret citee, 
Amonges Cristen folk a lewerye, 
Sustened by a lord of that contree. 
For foule usure, and lucre of vilanye. 
Hateful to Crist, and to his compagnye: 
And thurgh the strete men mighten ride or wende 
For it was free, and open at eyther ende. 

** heed ^* contemptuous. ?^ overbearing. ^^ haughty. ^* over fine. 



BRITISH POEMS , 

A litel scole of Cristen folk ther stood ; 

Doun at the ferther ende, in which ther were \ 

Children an heep, y-comen of Cristen blood, | 

That lerned in that scole yeer by 3'ere, ' 

Swiche manere doctrine as men used there: j 
This is to seyn, to singen and to rede, 

As smale children doon in hir childhede. i 

Among thise children was a widwes sone, 
A litel clergeon, seven yeer of age, 

That day by day to scole was his wone, I 

And eek also, wheras he saugh th'image i 
Of Cristes moder, had he in usage. 
As him was taught, to knele adoun, and seye, 

His Ave Marie, as he goth by the weye. > 

Thus hath this widwe hir litel sone y-taught ' 

Our blisful Lady, Cristes moder dere, I 

To worship ay, and he forgat it naught: { 

For sely childe wol alday sone lere. i 
But ay, whan I remembre on this matere, 

Seint Nicholas stant ever in my presence, • 
For he so yong to Crist did reverence. 

This litel child his litel book lerninge, j 

As he sate in the scole at his primer, ; 

He ''Alma redemptoris " herde singe, ' 
As children lerned hir antiphoner: 
And, as he dorste, he drough him ner and ner, 

And herkned ay the wordes and the note, j 

Til he the firste vers coude al by rote. | 

I 

Noght wiste he what this latin was to saye, j 

For he so yong and tendre was of age; | 

But on a day his felaw gan he preye { 

Texpounden him this song in his langage, i 

Or telle him why this song was in usage: ' 

This preyde he him to construe and declare, i 
Ful ofte tyme upon his knees bare. 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER 

His felaw, which that elder was than he, 
Aiiswerde him thus: "This song, I have herd seye, 
Was maked of our blisful Lady fre, 
Hir to salue, and eek hir for to preye 
To ben our help, and socour whan we deye. 
I can no more expound in this matere: 
I lerne song, I can but smal grammere." 

"And is this song maked in reverence 
Of Cristes moder? " said this Innocent. 
"Now certes I wol do my diligence 
To conne it all or Cristemasse be went, 
Though that I for my primer shal be shent,^ 
And shall be beten thryes in an houre, 
I wol it conne, our Ladie for to honoure." 

His felaw taughte him homward prively 
Fro day to day, til he coude it by rote. 
And than he song it wel and boldely 
Fro word to word according with the note: 
Twyes a day it passed thurgh his throte. 
To scoleward and homeward whan he wente 
On Cristes moder set was his entente. 

As I have seyd, thurghout the lewerye 
This litel child, as he cam to and fro, 
Ful merily than wold he singe, and crye 
"0 Alma redemptoris" ever-mo: 
The swetnes hath his herte perced so 
Of Cristes moder, that to hire to preye 
He cannot stint of singing by the weye. 

Our firste foo, the serpent Sathanas, 
That hath in lewes herte his waspes nest. 
Up swal and seid, "O Ebraik peple, alas! 
Is this to yow a thing that is honest. 
That swich a boy shal walken as him lest 
In your despyt, and singe of swich sentence. 
Which is agayn your lawes reverence.^ " 

• scolded. 



10 BRITISH POEMS 

Fro thennes forth the lewes han conspyred 
This Innocent out of this world to chace: 
An homicyde there-to han they hyred, 
That in an aley had a privee place, 
And as the child gan forthby for to pace, 
This cursed lew him hent,^ and heeld him faste 
And kitte his throte, and in a pit him caste. 

I say that in a wardrobe they him threwe, 
Wher as thise lewes purgen hir entraille. 
O cursed folk, of Herodes alle newe, 
What may your yvil entente j^ou availle? 
Mordre wol out, certein it wol not faille. 
And namely ther th' honour of God shal sprede: 
The blood out cryeth on your cursed dede. 

"O martyr, souded in virginitec! 
Now mayst thou singen, and folwen ever in on 
The White Lamb celestial," quod she, 
*' Of which the gret Evangelist, Seint John 
In Pathmos wrote, which sayth that they that goon 
Beforn this Lamb, and singe a song al newe, 
That never fleshly woman they ne knewe." 

This poure widwe awaiteth al that night 
After hir litel childe, and he cam noght: 
For which, as sone as it was dayes light. 
With face pale of drede and bisy thoght. 
She hath at scole and elleswher him soght. 
Til finally she gan so fer espye 
That he last seyn was in the lewerye. 

With modres pitee in hir brest enclosed 
She gooth, as she were half out of hir mynde. 
To every place wher she hath supposed 
By lyklihede hir litel child to fynde: 
And ever on Cristes moder meke and kynde 
She crj^de, and at the laste thus she wroughte. 
Among the cursed lewes she him soughte. 

2 seized. 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER 11 

She freyneth and she prej^eth pitously 
To every lew that dwelte in thilke place, 
To telle hir, if hir child wente ought for-by. 
They seyde, "Nay"; but lesu, of his grace, 
Yaf in hir thought, inwith a litel space, 
That in that place after hir sone she cryde, 
Wher he was casten in a pit besyde. 

O grete God, that parformest thy laude 
By mouth of Innocentz, lo heer thy myght! 
This gemme of chastitee, this Emeraude, 
And eek of martirdom the Rubie bright, 
Ther he with throte y-korven lay upryght. 
He "Alma redemptoris " gan to singe 
So loude, that all the place gan to ringe. 

The Cristen folk that thurgh the strete wente, 
In coomen, for to wondre upon this thing: 
And hastily they for the Provost sente. 
He cam anon withouten tarying. 
And herieth^ Crist, that is of heven king. 
And eek his moder, honour of mankynd. 
And after that the lewes let he bynde. 

This child with pitous lamentacioun 
Up-taken was, singing his song alway: 
And with honour and gret processioun. 
They carien him unto the next abbay. 
His moder swowning by the bere lay; 
Unnethe might the peple that was there 
This newe Rachel bringe fro his bere. 

With torment and with shamful deth eche on 
This Provost doth thise lewes for to sterve. 
That of this morder wiste, and that anon; 
He nolde no swiche cursednesse observe: 
Yvil shal he have, that yvil wol deserve. 
Therfor with wilde hors he dide hem drawe. 
And after that he heng hem by the lawe. 

2 praise. 



12 BRITISH POEMS 

Upon his here ay lyth this Innocent 
Biforn the chief auter whyl masse laste. 
And after that, the abbot with his covent 
Han sped hem for to burien him ful faste; 
And whan they holy water on him caste, 
Yet spak this child, whan spreynd was holy water^ 
And sang — "0 Alma redeinptoris mater!'' 

This abbot, which that was an holy man. 
As monkes been, or elles oughten to be, 
This yonge child to conjure he bigan. 
And seyd; "O dere child, I halse thee 
In vertue of the holy Trinitee, 
Tel me what is thy cause for to singe, 
Sith that thy throte is cut, to my seminge? " 

" My throte is cut unto my nekke-boon," 
Seyd this child, "and, as by wey of kynde, 
I sholde have deyed, ye, longe tyme agoon: 
But lesu Crist, as ye in bookes fynde, 
Wil that his glorie laste, and be in mynde, 
And, for the worship of his moder dere, 
Yet may I singe '0 Alma ' loude and clere. 

"This welle of mercy, Cristes moder swete, 
I loved alwey, as after my conninge; 
And whan that I my lyf sholde forlete. 
To me she cam, and bad me for to singe 
This antem veraily in my deyinge, 
As ye han herd, and, whan that I had songe. 
Me thoughte she leyde a grain upon my tonge. 

" Wherfor I singe, and singe I mote certeyn 
In honour of that blisful mayden free, 
Til fro my tonge of- taken is the greyn; 
And after that thus seyde she to me, 
* My litel child, than wol I fetchen thee 
Whan that the greyn is fro thy tonge y-take: \ 

Be nat agaste, I wol thee nat forsake.' " 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER 13 

This holy monk, this abbot, him mene I, 
His tonge out-caughte, and toke away the greyn, 
And he yaf up the gost ful softely. 
And whan this abbot had this wonder seyn, 
His salte teres trikled doun as reyn. 
And gruf he fell al plat upon the grounde. 
And stille he lay, as he had ben y-bounde. 

The covent eek lay on the pavement 
Weping, and herying Cristes moder dere. 
And after that they rise, and forth ben went. 
And toke awey this martir fro his bere. 
And in a tombe of marble-stones clere 
Enclosen they his litel body swete; 
Ther he is now, God leve us for to mete. 



BALADE DE BON CONSEYL 

Flee fro the prees, and dwelle with sothfastnesse, 
Suffyce unto thy good, though hit be smal; 
For hord hath hate, and clymbing tikelnesse,^ 
Prees^ hath envye, and wele blent overal; 
Savour no more than thee bihove shal; 
Werk wel thy-self, that other folk canst rede;* 
And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede."* 

Tempest^ thee noght al croked to redresse, 

In trust of hir that turneth as a bal;^ 

Gret reste stant'^ in litel besinesse. 

And eek be war^ to sporne^^ ageyn an al; 

Strive noght, as doth the crokke^^ with the wal. 

Daunte thy-self, that dauntest otheres dede; 

And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. 

' insecurity. ' the crowd. ^ prosperity blinds everywhere, 

* advise. ^ doubt. ^ disturb. 

" i. e., fortune. ^ stands, resides. ^ cautious. 

'° kick. 11 awl. i^ crock, earthen pot. 



U BRITISH POEMS 

That thee is sent, receyve in buxumnesse/^ 

The wrastHiig for this worlde axeth a fal. 

Her iiis noii horn, her nis but wildernesse : 

Forth, pilgrim, forth! Forth, beste, out of thy stall 

Know thy contree; lok up, thank God of al; 

Hold the hye-wey, and lat thy gost^^ thee lede! 

And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. 

ENVOY 

Therfore, thou vache,^'' leve thyn old wrecchednesse; 
Unto the worlde leve^*^ now to be thral; 
Crye Him mercy that of His hy goodnesse 
Made thee of noght, and in especial 
Draw unto Him, and p^'ay in general 
For thee, and eek for other, hevenlich mede; 
And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. 
Explicit Le hon counseill de G. Chaucer 



JOHN LYDGATE [1370P-1-151?] 

THE CHILD JESUS TO MARY THE ROSE 

My Fader above, beholdyng thy mekenesse. 
As dewe on rosis doth his bawme sprede, 

Sendith his Gost, most soverayne of clennesse. 
Into thy breste, A! Rose of Wommanhede! 
Whan I for man was borne in my manhede — 

For which, with rosis of hevenly influence 

I me rejoyse to pley in thy presence. 

Benygne Moder, who first dide inclose 

The blessed budde that sprang out of Jesse, 

Thow of Juda the verray perfit Rose, 
Chose of my Fader for thyn humylite 
Without fadyng, most clennest to bere me — 

For w^hich with roses of chast innocence 

I me rejoyse to pley in thy presence. 

13 willing obedience. ^* spirit. ^^ cow. '® 



ROBERT HENRYSON 

O Moder! Moder! of mercy most habounde, 
Fayrest moder that ever was alyve, 

Though I for man have many a bloody wounde, 
Among theym alle there be rosis fyve, 
Agayne whos mercy fiendis may nat stryve; — 

Mankynde to save, best rosis of defence, 

Whan they me pray for helpe in thy presence. 



ROBERT HEXRYSOX [1425?—?] 

THE BLUDY SERK 

This hindir yeir I hard be tald, 

Thair was a worthy King; 
Dukis, Erhs, and Barronis bald. 

He had at his bidding. 
The Lord was anceane, and aid. 

And sexty yeiris cowth ring; 
He had a Dochter, fair to fald/ 

A lusty lady ying." 

Off all fairheid scho^ bur^ the flour; 

And eik hir faderis air;^ 
OflF lusty laitis,*' and he^ honour; 

Meik, bot and^ debonair. 
Scho wynnit^ in a bigly bour. 

On fold wes non so fair; 
Princis luvit hir par amour. 

In cuntreis our all quhair. 

Thair dwelt a lyt besyde the King 

A fowll Gyane^^ of ane; 
Stollin he hes the Lady ying, 

Away with hir is gane; 

1 "to fald ": on earth. 2 young. ^ she. * bore. ^hdr. 

6 " lusty laitis": pleasant demeanour. ' high. * " bot and": but also. yet. 

^ dwelt. 1" I. e., everywhere. " giant. 



16 BRITISH POEMS 

And kest hir in his dungering, 
Quhair licht scho micht se nane: 

Hungir and cauld, and grit thristing, 
Scho fand in to hir waine. " 

He wes the laithliest on to luk 

That on the grund mycht gang: 
His naiUs wes lyk ane helhs cruk, 

Thairwith fyve quarteris lang. 
Thair wes nane that he our-tuk, 

In rycht or yit in wrang, 
Bot all in schondir^^ he thame schuke; 

The Gyane wes so Strang. 

He held the Lady day and nycht. 

Within his deip dungeoun; 
He wald nocht gif of hir a sicht 

For gold nor yit ransoun, 
Bot gife^^ the King mycht get a Knycht, 

To fecht with his persoun. 
To fecht with him, bot day and nycht, 

Quhill ane were dungin doun. 

The King gart seik baith fer and neir, 

Beth be se and land, 
Off ony Knycht gife he micht heir, 

Wald fecht with that Gyand. 
A worthy Prince, that had no peir, 

Hes tane the deid on hand, 
For the luve of the Lady cleir; 

And held full trew cunnand.^^ 



That Prince come prowdly to the toun, 

Of that Gyane to heir; 
And fawcht with him, his awin persoun, 

And tuke him presoneir; 

Indwelling. i^ gyujep i^ " Bot gif e ": unless. ^^ covenant. 



ROBERT HENRYSON 17 

And kest him in his awin dungeoun, 

Allane withouttin feir, 
With hungir, cauld, and confusioun, 

As full Weill worthy weir. 

Syne brak the boiir, had hame the Bricht,^^ 

Unto hir Fadir deir. 
Saw evill wondit was the Knycht, 

That he behuvit^'' to de. 
Unlufum was his likame^^ dicht, 

His sark was all bludy; 
In all the warld was thair a wicht 

So peteouss for to se! 

The Lady murnj t, and maid grit mone, 

With all hir mekle micht: 
"I luvit nevir lufe, bot one, 

That dulfully now is dicht! 
God sen my lyfe wer fra me tone, 

Or I had sene yone ficht; 
Or ellis in begging evir to gone 

Furth with yone curtass Knycht." 

He said, "Fair Lady now mone I 

De,^^ trestly^° ye me trow: 
Tak ye mj' sark that is bludy. 

And hing it forrow yow. 
First think on it, and syne on me, 

Quhen men cumis yow to wow."^^ 
The lady said, "Be'-^ Mary fre, 

Thairto I make a vow." 

Quhen that scho lukit to the serk, 

Scho thocht on the persoun: 
And prayit for him with all hir harte. 

That lowsd hir of bandoun:-^ 

" bright, fair: i. e., the Lad}\ " must. '^ body. '' die. 

2" truly. 2^ woo. -" by. ^^ bondage. 



18 BRITISH POEMS 

Quhair scho was wont to sit full merk^'* 

In that deip dungeoun: 
And evir quhill scho wes in quert,^^ 

That wass hir a lessoun. 

So Weill the Lady luvit the Knycht, 

That no man wald scho tak. 
So suld we do our God of micht 

That did all for us mak; 
Quhilk fullely to deid wes dicht. 

For sinfuU manis saik. 
Sa suld we do, both day and nycht. 

With prayaris to him mak. 

MORALITAS 

This King is lyk the Trinitie 

Baith in hevin and heir. 
The^^ Manis saule to the Lady: 

The Gyane to Lucefeir. 
The Knycht to Chryst, that deit on tre. 

And coft^^ our synnis deir: 
The pit to hell, with panis fell; 

The^^ syn to the woweir.^^ 

The Lady was wowd, but scho said "Nay" 

With men that wald hir wed; 
Sa suld we wrytlr^ all syn away. 

That in our breist is bred. 
I pray to Jesu Chryst verrey 

For us his blud that bled. 
To be our help on Domysday, 

Quhair lawis ar straitly led. 

The saule^^ is Godis dochtir deir. 

And eik his handewerk, 
That was betrasit with Lucifeir, 

Quha sittis in hell, full merk. 

2'' dark. ^ joyful. ^6 "The" is superfluous. ^7 bought. 

28 wooer. 29 remove. ^^ soul. 



WILLIAM DUNBAR 19 

Borrowit^^ with Chrystis angell cleir, 

Hend^'^ men! will ye nocht herk? 
For his lufe that bocht us deir, 

Think on the Bludy Serk! 



WILLIAM DUNBAR [1460P-1520?] 

TO A LAD YE 

SwET rois of vertew and of gentilness, 

Delytsum lily of everie liistyness. 

Richest in bontie and in bewtie clear, 
And everie vertew that is [esteemed] deer. 

Except onlie that ye ar mercy less. 

Into your garth this day I did persew; 

There saw I flowris that fresche wer of hew; 
Baith quhyte and reid most lusty wer to seyne. 
And halesome herbis upon stalkis grene; 

Yet leaf nor flowr fynd could I nane of rew. 

I dout that Merche, with his cauld blastis keyne. 
Has slain this gentil herbe, that I of mene, 

Quhois piteous death dois to my heart sic paine 
That I wald mak to plant his root againe — 
So confortand his levis unto me bene. 

31 redeemed. ^2 courteous. 



20 BRITISH POEMS 

JOHN SKELTON [1460P-1529] 

TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY 

MiRRY Margaret, 

As mydsomer flowre; 

Jentill as fawcoun 

Or hawke of the towere: 

With solace and gladnes, 

Moche mirthe and no madness, 

All good and no badness, 

So joyously. 

So maydenly. 

So womanly. 

Her demenyng 

In every thynge. 

Far, far passynge 

That I can endyght. 

Or suffyce to w rj^ghte, 

Of mirry Margarete, 

As mydsomer flowre, 

Jentyll as fawcoun 

Or hawke of the towre: 

As pacient and as styll. 

And as full of good wyll 

As faire Isaphill; 

Colyaunder, 

Swete pomaunder, 

Goode cassaunder; 

Stedfast of thought, 

Wele made, wele wrought; 

Far may be sought. 

Erst that ye can fynde 

So corteise, so kynde, 

As mirry Margaret, 

This mydsomer floure, 

Jentyll as fawcoun 

Or hawke of the towre. 

[From A Gablande of Laohell. 



POPULAR BALLADS 21 



ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH POPULAR 
BALLADS 

SIR PATRICK SPENS 

The king sits in Dumferling toune, 
Drinking the blude-reid wine: 

"O whar will I get guid sailor. 
To sail this schip of mine?" 

Up and spak an eldern knicht, 

Sat at the kings richt kne : 
"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor. 

That sails upon the se." 

The king has written a braid letter, 

And signd it wi his hand, 
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, 

Was walking on the sand. 

The first line that Sir Patrick red, 

A loud lauch lauched he; 
The next line that Sir Patrick red. 

The teir blinded his ee. 

"O wha is this has don this deid, 

This ill deid don to me. 
To send me out this time o' the yeir, 

To sail upon the se! 

"Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, 
Our guid schip sails the morne:" 

**0 say na sae, my master deir. 
For I feir a deadlie storme. 

"Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone, 
Wi the auld moone in hir arme, 

And I feir, I feir, my deir master. 
That we will cum to harme." 



22 BRITISH POEMS ^ 

O our Scots nobles wer richt laith i 

To weet their cork-heild schoone; 
Bot lang owre a' the play wer pla^^d, 

Thair hats they swam aboone. 

O lang, lang may the ladies sit, 

Wi thair fans into their hand, 
Or eir thej" se Sir Patrick Spence 

Cum sailing to the land. 

O lang, lang may the ladies stand, 

Wi thair gold kems in their hair, 
Waiting for thair ain deir lords. 

For they'll se thame na mair. 

Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour, 

It's fiftie fadom deip. 
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, 

Wi the Scots lords at his feit. 



THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY 

"Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says, 
"And put on your armour so bright; 

Let it never be said, that a daughter of thine 
Was married to a lord under night. 

"Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons. 

And put on your armour so bright. 
And take better care of your youngest sister. 

For your eldest's awa the last night." 

He's mounted her on a milk-white steed. 

And himself on a dapple grey. 
With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, 

And lightly they rode away. 



POPULAR BALLADS 23 

Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder, 

To see what he could see. 
And there he spy'd her seven brethren bold. 

Come riding over the lea. 

"Light down, light down. Lady Margret," he said. 

And hold my steed in your hand, 
Until that against your seven brethren bold, 

And your father, I mak a stand." 

She held his steed in her milk-white hand. 

And never shed one tear. 
Until that she saw her seven brethren fa, 

And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear. 

"O hold your hand, Lord William!" she said, 
"For your strokes they are wondrous sair; 

True lovers I can get man}" a ane. 
But a father I can never get mair." 

O she's ta'en out her handkerchief. 

It was o' the holland sae fine. 
And aye she dighted^ her father's bloody wounds, 

That were redder than the wine. 

"0 chuse, O chuse. Lady Margret," he said, 

"O whether will ye gang or bide?" 
"I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said, 

"For ye have left me no other guide." 

He's lifted her on a milk-white steed. 

And himself on a dapple grey. 
With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, 

And slowly they baith rade away. 

they rade on, and on they rade. 

And a' by the light of the moon. 
Until they came to yon wan water. 

And there they lighted down. 

' wiped. 



24 BRITISH POEMS 

They lighted down to tak a drink 

Of the spring that ran sae clear; 
And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood. 

And sair she gan to fear. 

"Hold up, hold up. Lord William," she saj's 

"For I fear that you are slain!" 
"'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak. 

That shines in the water sae plain." 

O they rade on, and on they rade. 

And a' by the light of the moon, 
Until they cam' to his mother's ha' door, 

And there they lighted down. 

"Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, 

"Get up, and let me in! — 
Get up, get up, lady mother," he says 

"For this night my fair ladye I've win. 

"O mak my bed, lady mother," he says, 

"O mak it braid and deep! 
And lay Lady Margret close at my back, 

And the sounder I will sleep." 

Lord William was dead lang ere midnight, 

Lady Margret lang ere day — 
And all true lovers that go thegither. 

May they have mair luck than they! 

Lord William was buried in St. Mary's kirk, 

Lady Margaret in Mary's quire; 
Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose. 

And out o' the knight's a brier. 

And they twa met, and they twa plat,^ 

And fain they wad be near; 
And a' the warld might ken right weel, 

They were twa lovers dear. 

2 twined. 



POPULAR BALLADS 25 

But bye and rade the Black Douglas, 

And wow but he was rough! 
For he pull'd up the bonny brier, 

And flang't in St. Mary's loch. 



THE DEATH AND BUMAL OF ROBIN HOOD 

When Robin Hood and Little John 

Down, a down, a down, a down. 
Went oer yon bank of broom, 

Said Robin Hood bold to Little John, 
"We have shot for many a pound." 

Hey down, a down, a down. 

"But I am not able to shoot one shot more. 

My broad arrows will not flee; 
But I have a cousin lives down below. 

Please God, she will bleed me." 

Now Robin he is to fair Kirkly gone. 

As fast as he can win; 
But before he came there, as we do hear. 

He was taken very ill. 

And when he came to fair Kirkly-hall, 

He knockd all at the ring. 
But none was so ready as his cousin herself 

For to let bold Robin in. 

"Will you please to sit down, cousin Robin," she said, 

"And drink some beer with me.^^" 
"No, I will neither eat nor drink. 

Till I am bleeded by thee." 

"Well, I have a room, cousin Robin," she said, 

"Which you did never see. 
And if you please to walk therein, 

You blooded by me shall be." 



26 BRITISH POEMS 

She took him by the lily-white hand, 
And led him to a private room, 

And there she blooded bold Robin Hood, 
While one drop of blood would run down. 

She blooded him in a vein of the arm. 
And locked him up in the room; 

Then did he bleed all the live-long day, 
Until the next day at noon. 

He then bethought him of a casement there, 

Thinking for to get down; 
But was so weak he could not leap. 

He could not get him down. 

He then bethought him of his bugle-horn, 
Which hung low down to his knee; 

He set his horn unto his mouth. 
And blew out weak blasts three. 

Then Little John, when hearing him. 

As he sat under a tree, 
"I fear my master is now near dead, 
He blows so wearily." 

Then Little John to fair Kirkly is gone. 

As fast as he can dree; 
But when he came to Kirkly-hall, 

He broke locks two or three: 

Until he came bold Robin to see. 

Then he fell on his knee; 
"A boon, a boon," cries Little John, 

"Master, I beg of thee." 

"What is that boon," said Robin Hood, 
"Little John, thou begs of me?" 

"It is to burn fair Kirkly-hall, 
And all their nunnerj'." 



POPULAR BALLADS 27 

"Now nay, now nay," quoth Robin Hood, 

"That boon I'll not grant thee; 
I never hurt woman in all my life, 

Nor men in woman's company. 

"I never hurt fair maid in all my time. 

Nor at mine end shall it be; 
But give me my bent bow in my hand. 

And a broad arrow I'll let flee. 
And where this arrow is taken up. 

There shall my grave digg'd be. 

"Lay me a green sod under my head, 

And another at my feet; 
And lay my bent bow by my side, 

Which was my music sweet; 
And make my grave of gravel and green. 

Which is most right and meet. 

** Let me have length and breadth enough. 

With a green sod under my head; 
That they may say, when I am dead, 

Here lies bold Robin Hood." 

These words they readily granted him, 

Which did bold Robin please: 
And there they buried bold Robin Hood, 

Within the fair Kirklevs. 



THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT 

The Perse owt off Northombarlonde, 

and avowe to God mayd he 
That he wold hunte in the mowntayns 

off Chyviat within days thre, 
In the magger^ of doughte Dogles, 

and all that ever with him be. 

1 spite. 



28 BRITISH POEMS 

The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat 

he sayd he wold kyll, and cary them away: 

"Be my feth," sayd the dougheti Doglas agayn, 
"I wyll lef^ that hontyng yf that I may." 

Then the Perse owt ofiF Banborowe cam, 

with him a myghtee meany,^ 
With fifteen hondrith archarcs bold off blood and bone; 

the'' wear chosen owt of shyars thre. 

This begane on a Monday at morn, 

in Cheviat the hillys so he;'' 
The chylde may rue that ys unborn, 

it wos the more pitte. 

The dryvars thorowe the woodes went, 

for to reas the dear; 
Bomen byckarte^ uppone the bent' 

with ther browd aros cleare. 

Then the wyld^ thorowe the woodes went, 

on every syde shear ;^ 
Greahondes thorowe the grevis^^ glent,^^ 

for to kyll thear dear. 

This begane in Chyviat the hyls abone, 

yerly on a Monnyn-day; 
Be that it drewe to the oware off none, 

a hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay. 

The^^ blewe a mort uppone the bent, 

the^2 semblyde on sydis shear; 
To the quyrry then the Perse went, 

to se the bryttlynge^^ off the deare. 

He sayd, "It was the Duglas promys, 

this day to met me hear; 
But I wyste he wolde faylle, verament;" 

a great oth the Perse swear. 

2 prevent. ^ company. * they. '" high. ^ attacked. ^ field. 

* deer. ^ several. "* groves. i' glided. ^- they. '^ cutting up. 



POPULAR BALLADS 29 

At the laste a squyar off Northomberlonde 

lokyde at his hand full ny; 
He was war a the doughetie Doglas commynge, 

with him a myghtte meany. 

Both with spear, bylle, and brande, 

yt was a myghtti sight to se; 
Hardy ar men, both off hart nor hande, 

wear not in Cristiante. 

The wear twenti hondrith spear-men good, 

withoute any feale; 
The wear borne along be the watter a Twyde, 

yth^^ bowndes of Tividale. 

"Leave of the brytlyng of the dear," he sayd, 
"and to your boys^^ lock ye tayk good hede; 

For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne 
had ye never so mickle nede." 

The dougheti Dogglas on a stede, 

he rode alle his men beforne; 
His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede;^^ 

a boldar barne was never born. 

"Tell me whos men ye ar," he says, 

"or whos men that ye be: 
Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Chyviat chays, 

in the spyt of myn and of me." 

The first mane that ever him an answear mayd, 

yt was the good lord Perse: 
"We wyll not tell the whoys men we ar," he says, 

"nor whos men that we be; 
But we wyll hounte hear in this chays, 

in the spyt of thyne and of the. 

"The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat, 

we have kyld, and cast to carry them away. 

"Be my troth," sayd the doughete Dogglas agayn, 
"therfor the ton^^ of us shall de this day." 

^* with. 1^ bows. ^^ glowing coal. ^^ one. 



30 BRITISH POEMS 

Then sayd the doughte Doglas 

unto the lord Perse: 
"To kyll alle these giltles men, 

alas, it wear great pittie ! 

"But, Perse, thowe art a lord of lande, 
I am a yerle callyd within my contre; 

Let all our men uppone a parti stande, 
and do the battell off the and of me." 

"Nowe Cristes cors on his crowne," sayd the lord 
Perse, 

"who-so-ever ther-to says nay; 
Be my troth, doughtte Doglas," he says, 

"thow shalt never se that day, 

"Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France, 

nor for no man of a woman born. 
But, and fortune be my chance, 

I dar met him on^^ man for on." 

Then bespayke a squyar off Northombarlonde, 
Richard Wytharyngton was his nam: 

"It shall never be told in Sothe- Ynglonde," he says, 
"to Kyng Herry the Fourth for sham. 

"I wat youe byn great lordes twaw, 

I am a poor squyar of lande: 
I wylle never se my captayne fyght on a fylde, 

and stande my selffe and loocke on, 
But whylle I may my weppone welde, 

I wylle not fayle both hart and hande." 

That day, that day, that dredfull day! 

the first fit here I fynde; 
And youe wyll here any mor a the hountyng a the 
Chyviat, 

yet ys ther mor behynde. 



POPULAR BALLADS 31 

The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent, 

ther hartes wer good yenoughe; 
The first off arros that the shote off, 

seven skore spear-men the sloughe.^^ 

Yet byddys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent, 

a captayne good yenoughe, 
And that was sene verament, 

for he wrought horn both woo and wouche.'^^ 

The Dogglas partyd his ost in thre, 

lyk a cheffe chef ten off pryde; 
With suar^^ spears off myghtte tre, 

the cum in on every syde: 

Thrughe our Yngglyshe archery 

gave many a wounde fulle wyde; 
Many a doughete the garde^'- to dy, 

which ganyde them no pryde. 

The Ynglyshe men let ther boys be, 

and pulde owt brandes that wer brighte; 

It was a hevy syght to se 

bryght swordes on basnites lyght. 

Thorowe ryche male and myneyeple,'^ 
many sterne the strocke done streght; 

Many a freyke^^ that was fulle fre, 
ther undar foot dyd lyght. 

At last the Duglas and the Perse met, 
lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne; 

The swapte togethar tylle the both swat, 
with swordes that wear of fyn myllan. 

Thes worthe freckys for to fyght, 

ther-to the wear fulle fayne. 
Tylle the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente 

as ever dyd heal or rayn. 

19 slew. 20 harm. ^i trusty. - made. 23 gauntlets. ^ man. 



32 BRITISH POEMS 

"Yelde the. Perse," sayde the Doglas, 

"and i feth I shalle the brynge 
Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis 

of Jamy our Skottish kynge. 

**Thou shalte have thy ransom fre, 

I hight"^ the hear this thmge; 
For the manfuUyste man yet art thowe 

that ever I conqueryd in filde fighttynge." 

"Na3%" sayd the lord Perse, 

"I tolde it the beforne, 
That I wolde never yeldyde be 

to no man of a woman born." 

With that ther cam an arrowe hastely, 

forthe off a myghtte wanef^ 
Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas 

in at the brest-bane. 

Thorowe lyvar and longes bathe 

the sharpe arrowe ys gane. 
That never after in all his lyffe-days 

he spayke mo wordes but ane: 
That was, "Fyghte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye 
may, 

for my lyff-days !jen gan." 

The Perse leanyde on his brande, 

and sawe the Duglas de; 
He tooke the dede mane by the hande, 

and sayd, "Wo ys me for the! 

"To have savyde thy lyffe, I wolde have party de 
with 

my landes for years thre. 
For a better man, of hart nare of hande, 

was nat in all the north contre." 

^ promise. ^6 flight. 



POPULAR BALLADS 33 

Off all that se a Skottishe knyght, 

was callyd Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry ; 

He sawe the Duglas to the deth was dyght, 
he spendyd^^ a spear, a trusti tre. 

He rod uppone a corsiare 

throughe a hondrith archery: 
He never stynttyde, nar never blane,^^ 

tylle he cam to the good lord Perse. 

He set uppone the lorde Perse 

a dynte that was full soare; 
With a suar spear of a myghtte tre 

clean thorow the body he the Perse ber, 

A the tothar syde that a man myght se 

a large cloth-yard and mare: 
Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Cristiante 

then that day slan wear ther. 

An archar off Northomberlonde 

say^^ slean was the lord Perse; 
He bar a bende bowe in his hand, 

was made off trusti tre. 

An arow, that a cloth-yarde was lang, 

to the harde stele halyde^^ he; 
A dynt that was both sad and soar 

he sat^^ on Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry. 

The dynt 3't was both sad and sar, 

that he of Monggomberrj' sete; 
The swane-fethars that his arrowe bar 

with his hart-blood the wear wete. 

Ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fle, 

but still in stour dyd stand, 
Heawyng on yche othar, whylle the niyghte dre,^^ 

with many a balfull brande. 

2^ grasped. 28 stopped. ^9 saw. ^^ drew. ^^ set upon. '^ endure. 



BRITISH POEMS 

This battell begane in Chyviat 

an owar before the none, 
And when even-songe bell was rang, 

the battell was nat half done. 

The tocke ... ^^ on ethar hande 

be the lyght off the mone; 
Many hade no strenght for to stande, 

in Chyviat the hilly s abon. 

Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde 
went away but seven ti and thre; 

Of twenti hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde, 
but even five and fifti. 

But all wear slayne Cheviat within; 

the hade no strengthe to stand on hy; 
The chylde may rue that ys unborne, 

it was the mor pitte. 

Thear was slayne, withe the lord Perse, 

Sir Johan of Agerstone, 
Ser Rogar, the hinde^* Hartly, 

Ser Wyllyam, the bolde Hearone. 

Ser Jorg, the worthe Loumle, 

a knyghte of great renowen, 
Ser Raff, the ryche Rugbe, 

with dyntes wear beaten dowene. 

For Wetharryngton my harte was wo, 

that ever he slayne should be; 
For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to, 

yet he knyled and fought on hys kny. 

Ther was slayne, with the dougheti Duglas, 

Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry, 
Ser Dany Lwdale, that worthe was, 

his sistars son was he. 

33 break in the text. ^4 courteous. 



POPULAR BALLADS 35 

Ser Charls a Murre in that place, 

that never a foot wolde fle; 
Ser Hewe Maxvvelle, a lorde he was, 

with the Doglas dyd he dey. 

So on the morrowe the mayde them by ears 

off birch and hasell so grey; 
Many wedous, with wepying tears, 

cam to fache ther makys"^^ away. 

Tivydale may carpe off care, 

Northombarlond may mayk great mon, 
For towe such captayns as slayne wear thear, 

on the March-parti shall never be non. 

Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe, 

to Jamy the Skottische kynge, 
That dougheti Duglas, lyff- tenant of the Marches, 

he lay slean Chyviot within. 

His handdes dyd he weal and wryng, 

he sayd, "Alas, and woe ys me! 
Such an othar captayn Skotland within," 

he sayd, "ye-feth shuld never be." 

Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone, 

till the fourth Harry our kynge, 
That lord Perse, leyff-tenante of the Marchis, 

he lay slayne Chyviat within. 

"God have merci on his solle," sayde Kyng Harry, 

"good Lord, yf thy will it be! 
I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde," he sayd, 

"as good as ever was he: 
But, Perse, and I brook my lyffe, 

thy deth well quyte shall be." 

36 mates. 



36 BRITISH POEMS 

As our noble kynge mayd his avowe, 

lyke a noble prince of renowen. 
For the deth of the lord Perse 

he dyde the battell of Hombyll-down ; 

Wher syx and thritte Skottishe knyghtes 

on a day wear beaten down: 
Glendale glytteryde on ther armor bryght, 

over castille, towar, and town. 

This was the hontynge off the Cheviat, 

that tear^*^ began this spurn ;^^ 
Old men that knowen the grownde well yenoughe 

call it the battell of Otterburn. 

At Otterburn begane this spurne 

uppone a Monnyndaj'; 
Ther was the dough te Doglas slean, 

the Perse never went away. 

Ther was never a tym on the Marche-partes 
sen the Doglas and the Perse met, 

But yt ys mervele and the rede blude ronne not, 
as the reane^^ doys in the stret. 

Ihesue Crist our balys bete,^^ 

and to the blys us brynge! 
Thus was the hountynge of the Chivyat: 

God sent us alle good endyng! 



THE DAEMON LOVER 

"O WHERE have you been, my long, long love, 
This long seven years and mair.'^" 

"O I'm come to seek my former vows 
Ye granted me before." 

^' fight. 3* rain. ^^ abate. 



POPULAR BALLADS 37 

"O hold your tongue of your former vows, 
For they will breed sad strife; 

hold your tongue of your former vows, 
For I am become a wife." 

He turnd him right and round about. 

And the tear blinded his ee: 
"I wad never hae trodden on Irish ground, 

If it had not been for thee. 

"I might hae had a king's daughter. 
Far, far beyond the sea; 

1 might have had a king's daughter. 
Had it not been for love o thee." 

"If ye might have had a king's daughter, 

Yersel ye had to blame; 
Ye might have taken the king's daughter, 

For ye kend that I was nane. 

"If I was to leave my husband dear. 

And my two babes also, 
O what have you to take me to. 

If with you I should go?" 

"I hae seven ships upon the sea — 

The eighth brought me to land — 
With four-and-twenty bold mariners. 

And music on every hand." 

She has taken up her two little babes, 

Kissd them baith cheek and chin: 
*'0 fair ye weel, my ain two babes. 

For I'll never see you again." 

She set her foot upon the ship. 

No mariners could she behold; 
But the sails were o the taffetie. 

And the masts o the beaten gold. 



38 BRITISH POEMS ] 

She had not sayld a league, a league, 

A league but barely three. 
When dismal grew his countenance, 

And drumlie grew his ee. 

They had not sayld a league, a league, 

A league but barely three, 
Until she espied his cloven foot. 

And she wept right bitterlie. 

"O hold your tongue of your weeping," says he, 

"Of your weeping now let me be; 
I will shew you how the lilies grow 

On the banks of Italy." 

"0 what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills. 

That the sun shines sweetly on?" 
"O yon are the hills of heaven," he said, 

"Where you will never win." 

*'0 whaten a mountain is yon," she said, 

"All so dreary wi frost and snow.^" 
"O yon is the mountain of hell," he cried, 

"Where you and I will go." 

He strack the tap-mast wi his hand. 

The fore-mast wi his knee, 
And he brake that gallant ship in twain. 

And sank her in the sea. 



SIR THOMAS WYATT 39 

SIR THOMAS WYATT [1503-1542] 

THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS 

Forget not yet the tried intent 
Of such a truth as I have meant; 
My great travail so gladly spent, 
Forget not yet! 

Forget not yet when first began 
The weary life ye know, since whan 
The suit, the service, none tell can; 
Forget not yet! 

Forget not yet the great assays, 
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways. 
The painful patience in delays, 
Forget not yet! 

Forget not! O, forget not this. 
How long ago hath been, and is. 
The mind that never meant amiss — 
Forget not yet! 

Forget not then thine own approved. 
The which so long hath thee so loved, 
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved: 
Forget not this! 

TO HIS UNKIND MISTRESS 

And wilt thou leave me thus? 
Say nay, say nay, for shame! 
To save thee from the blame 
Of all my grief and grame. 
And wilt thou leave me thus? 
Say nay! say nay! 



40 BRITISH POEMS 

And wilt thou leave me thus, 
That hath loved thee so long 
In wealth and woe among: 
And is thy heart so strong 
As for to leave me thus? 
Say nay! say nay! 

And wilt thou leave me thus, 
That hath given thee my heart 
Never for to depart 
Neither for pain nor smart: 
And wilt thou leave me thus? 
Say nay! say nay! 

And wilt thou leave me thus. 
And have no more pity 
Of him that loveth thee? 
Alas, thy cruelty! 
And wilt thou leave me thus? 
Say nay! say nay! 



THE LOVER COMPLAINETH 

My lute, awake! perform the last 
Labour that thou and I shall waste; 
And end that I have now begun: 
And when this song is sung and past, 
My lute, be still, for I have done. 

As to be heard wJiere ear is none; 
As lead to grave in marble stone; 
My song may pierce her heart as soon. 
Should we then sigh, or sing, or moan? 
No, no, my lute, for I have done. 

The rocks do not so cruelly 
Repulse the waves continually 



SIR THOMAS WYATT 41 

As she my suit and affection: 
So that I am past remedy; 
Whereby my lute and I have done. 

Proud of the spoil that thou hast got 
Of simple hearts thorough Love's shot, 
By whom unkind thou hast them won: 
Think not he hath his bow forgot, 
Although my lute and I have done. 

Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain, 
That makst but game on earnest pain; 
Think not alone under the sun 
Unquit to cause thy lovers plain; 
Although my lute and I have done. 

May chance, thee lie wither'd and old 
In winter nights, that are so cold, 
Plaining in vain unto the moon; 
Thy wishes then dare not be told: 
Care then who list, for I have done. 

And then may chance thee to repent 
The time that thou hast lost and spent, 
To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon: 
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, 
And wish and want as I have done. 

Now cease, my lute, this is the last 
Labour that thou and I shall waste; 
And ended is that we begun: 
Now is this song both sung and past: 
My lute, be still, for I have done. 



42 BRITISH POEMS 



THE LOVER LIKE TO A SHIP TOSSED ON THE SEA 

My galley charged with forgetfulness 

Thorough sharp seas, in winter nights doth pass, 

'Tween rock and rock; and eke my foe, alas. 

That is my lord, steereth with cruelness; 

And every hour, a thought in readiness, 

As though that death were light in such a case. 

An endless wind doth tear the sail apace 

Of forced sighs, and trusty fearfulness. 

A rain of tears, a cloud of dark disdain 

Hath done the wearied cords great hinderance. 

Wreathed with error, and with ignorance. 

The stars be hid that led me to this pain; 

Drowned is reason that should be my comfort, 
And I remain, despairing of the port. 



HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY 

[1517.^-1547] 

SPRING 

THE LOVER ONLY IS SORROWFUL 

The soote^ season, that bud and bloom forth brings, 

With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale. 

The nightingale with feathers new she sings; 

The turtle to her make^ hath told her tale. 

Summer is come, for every spray now springs: 

The hart hath hung his old head on the pale; 

The buck in brake his winter coat he slings; 

The fishes flete^ with new repaired scale; 

The adder all her slough away she slings; 

The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale; 

The busy bee her honey now she mings; 

Winter is worn, that was the flowers' bale. 
And thus I see among these pleasant things 
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs! 

' sweet. 2 mate. ^ float. * mixes. 



GEORGE GASCOIGNE 43 



THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE 

Martial, the things that do attain 

The happy life be these, I find: 
The riches left, not got with pain; 

The fruitful ground, the quiet mind; 
The equal friend, no grudge, no strife; 

No charge of rule nor governance; 
Without disease, the healthful life; 

The household of continuance. 
The mean^ diet, no delicate fare; 

True wisdom joined with simpleness; 
The night discharged of all care, 

Where wine the wit may not oppress; 
The faithful wife, without debate; 

Such sleeps as may beguile the night: 
Contented with thine own estate, 

Ne wish for death, ne fear his might. 



GEORGE GASCOIGNE [1525?-Io77] 

THE ARRAIGNMENT OF A LOVER 

At Beauty's bar as I did stand, 

When false Suspect accused me, 

"George," quoth the Judge, "hold up thy hand. 

Thou art arraigned of flattery: 

Tell therefore how thou wilt be tried: 

Whose judgment here wilt thou abide?" 

"My Lord," quoth I, "this Lady here, 
Whom I esteem above the rest, 
Doth know my guilt if any were: 
Wherefore her doom shall please me best. 
Let her be Judge and Juror both. 
To try me, guiltless, by mine oath!" 

' moderate. 



44 BRITISH POEMS 

Quoth Beauty, "No, it fitteth not 
A prince herself to judge the cause: 
Will is our Justice, well you wot. 
Appointed to discuss our laws: 
If you will guiltless seem to go, 
God and your country quit you so.'* 

Then Craft the crier called a quest. 
Of whom was Falsehood foremost fere, 
A pack of pickthanks were the rest. 
Which came false witness for to bear; 
The jury such, the judge unjust: 
Sentence was said I should be trussed. 

Jealous the jailer bound me fast. 

To hear the verdict of the bill, 

"George," quoth the Judge, "now thou art cast. 

Thou must go hence to Heavy Hill, 

x\nd there be hanged all but the head, 

God rest thy soul when thou art dead.'* 

Down fell I then upon my knee. 
All flat before Dame Beauty's face. 
And cried, "Good Lady, pardon me. 
Which here appeal unto your grace. 
You know if I have been untrue. 
It was in too much praising you. 

"And though this Judge do make such haste 

To shed with shame my guiltless blood. 

Yet let your pity first be placed 

To save the man that meant you good. 

So shall you show yourself a Queen, 

And I may be your servant seen." 

Quoth Beauty, "Well: because I guess. 
What thou dost mean henceforth to be. 
Although thy faults deserve no less 
Than Justice here hath judged thee. 



THOMAS SACKVILLE 45 

Wilt thou be bound to stint all strife 
And be true prisoner all thy life ?" 

"Yea mddam," quoth I, "that I shall, 

Lo, Faith and Truth my sureties." 

"Why then," quoth she, "come when I call, 

I ask no better warrantise." 

Thus am I Beauty's bounden thrall. 

At her command when she doth call. 



THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST 

[1536-1608] 

THE GODDESS OF SORROW SHOWETH 
THE POET HELL 

An hideous hole all vast, withouten shape. 

Of endless depth, o'erwhelmed with ragged stone. 

With ugly mouth, and grisly jaws doth gape. 

And to our sight confounds itself in one: 

Here entered we, and yeding^ forth, anon 

An horrible loathly lake we might discern. 

As black as pitch, that cleped is Avern: 

A deadly gulf, where naught but rubbish grows. 
With foul black swelth in thickened lumps that lies, 
Which up in th' air such stinking vapors throws. 
That over there may fly no fowl but dies 
Choked with the pestilent savours that arise: 
Hither we come; whence forth we still did pace. 
In dreadful fear amid the dreadful place: 

And first, within the porch and jaws of Hell, 
Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent 
With tears; and to herself oft would she tell 
Her wretchedness, and cursing never stent 
To sob and sigh; but ever thus lament, 

1 going. 



46 BRITISH POEMS 

With thoughtful care, as she that, all in vain, 
Would wear, and waste continually in pain. 

Her eyes unsteadfast, rolling here and there. 

Whirled on each place, as place that vengeance brought, 

So was her mind continually in fear. 

Tossed and tormented with the tedious thought 

Of those detested crimes which she had wrought; 

With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to the sky, 

Wishing for death, and yet she could not die. 

And next, within the entry of this lake. 
Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire. 
Devising means how she may vengeance take, 
Never in rest, till she have her desire: 
But frets within so far forth with the fire 
Of wreaking flames, that now determines she 
To die by death, or venged by death to be. 

When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pretence 
Had showed herself, as next in order set, 
With trembling limbs we softly parted thence, 
Till in our eyes another sight we met: 
When from my heart a sigh forthwith I fet. 
Ruing, alas! upon the woeful plight 
Of Misery, that next appeared in sight. 

His face was lean, and somedeal pined away, 
And eke his hands consumed to the bone, 
But what his body was, I cannot say. 
For on his carcass raiment had he none. 
Save clouts and patches, pieced one by one; 
With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast, 
His chief defence against the winter's blast. 

His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree. 
Unless sometimes some crumbs fell to his share, 
Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he, 



THOMAS SACKVILLE 47 

As on the which full daint'ly would he fare: 
His drink, the running stream; his cup, the bare 
Of his palm closed; his bed, the hard cold ground: 
To this poor life was Misery ybound. 

Whose wretched state when we had well beheld, 

With tender ruth on him, and on his fears. 

In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held; 

And, by and by, another shape appears. 

Of greedy Care, still brushing up the breres,^ 

His knuckles knobbed,' his flesh deep dented in, 

With tawed ^ hands, and hard ytanned skin. 

The morrow gray no sooner hath begun 
To spread his light, even peeping in our eyes. 
When he is up, and to his work yrun: 
But let the night's black misty mantles rise, 
And with foul dark never so much disguise 
The fair, bright day, yet ceaseth he no while, 
But has his candles to prolong his toil. 

Lastly, stood War, in glittering arms yclad, 
With visage grim, stern looks, and blackly hued; 
In his right hand a naked sword he had. 
That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued; 
And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rued) 
Famine and fire he held, and therewithal 
He razed towns, and threw down towers and all: 

Cities he sacked; and realms that whilom flowered 
In honor, glory, and rule, above the best. 
He overwhelmed, and all their fame devoured. 
Consumed, destroyed, wasted, and never ceased. 
Till he their wealth, their name, and all, oppressed: 
His face fore-hewed with wounds, and by his side 
There hung his targe, with gashes deep and wide. 

[From the Induction to A Mirrok for Magisthates. 
- briars. ^ hardened. ^ roughened. 



48 BRITISH POEMS 

NICHOLAS BRETON [1545P-1626?] 

PHYLLIDA AND CORYDON 

In the merry month of May, 
In a morn by break of day, 
Forth I walked by the wood-side. 
When as May was in her pride: 
There I spied all alone 
Phyllida and Corydon. 
Much ado there was, God wot! 
He would love and she would not. 
She said, never man was true; 
He said, none was false to you. 
He said, he had loved her long; 
She said, love should have no wrong, 
Corydon would kiss her then; 
She said, maids must kiss no men. 
Till they did for good and all; 
Then she made the shepherd call 
All the heavens to witness truth: 
Never loved a truer youth. 
Thus with many a pretty oath. 
Yea and nay, and faith and troth. 
Such as silly shepherds use 
When they will not love abuse. 
Love which had been long deluded. 
Was with kisses sweet concluded; 
And Phyllida, with garlands gay. 
Was made the Lady of the May. 



SIR WALTER RALEIGH 49 

SIR WALTER RALEIGH [1552P-1618] 

HIS PILGRIMAGE 

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, 

My staff of faith to walk upon. 
My scrip of joy, immortal diet. 

My bottle of salvation. 
My gown of glory, hope's true gage; 
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage. 

Blood must be my body's balmer; 

No other balm will there be given; 
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, 

Travelleth towards the land of heaven. 
Over the silver mountains. 
Where spring the nectar fountains: 
There will I kiss 
The bowl of bliss; 
And drink mine everlasting fill 
Upon every milken hill. 
My soul will be a-dry before; 
But after, it will thirst no more. 

Then, by that happy blissful day, 

More peaceful pilgrims I shall see. 

That have cast off their rags of clay. 

And walk apparelled fresh like me. 

I'll take them first 

To quench their thirst 
And taste of nectar suckets, 

4t those clear wells 

Where sweetness dwells. 
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets. 

And when our bottles and all we 
Are filled with immortality. 



50 BRITISH POEMS 

Then the blessed paths we'll travel, 

Strowed with rubies thick as gravel; 

Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors. 

High walls of coral, and pearly bowers. 

From thence to heaven's bribeless hall. 

Where no corrupted voices brawl; 

No conscience molten into gold, 

No forged accuser bought or sold. 

No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey, 

For there Christ is the king's Attorney, 

Who pleads for all without degrees. 

And He hath angels, but no fees. 

And when the grand twelve-million jury 

Of our sins, with direful fury, 

Against our souls black verdicts give, 

Christ pleads His death, and then we live — 

Be Thou my speaker, taintless pleader, 

Un blotted lawyer, true proceeder! 

Thou givest salvation even for alms; 

Not with a bribed lawyer's palms. 

And this is mine eternal plea 
To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea. 
That, since my flesh must die so soon. 
And want a head to dine next noon. 
Just at the stroke, when my veins start and spread. 
Set on my soul an everlasting head! 
Then am I ready, like a palmer fit. 
To tread those blest paths which before I writ. 
Of death and judgment, heaven and hell. 
Who oft doth think, must needs die well. 



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 51 



VERSES 

FOUND IN HIS BIBLE IN THE GATE-HOUSE AT WESTMINSTER 

Even such is time, that takes in trust 
Our youth, our joys, our all we have. 

And pays us but with earth and dust; 
Who, in the dark and silent grave, 

When we have wandered all our ways, 

Shuts up the story of our days; 

But from this earth, this grave, this dust. 

My God shall raise me up, I trust! 



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY [1554-1586] 

SONNETS 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! 

How silently, and with how wan a face! 

What, may it be that even in heavenly place 

That busy archer his sharp arrows tries! 

Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes 

Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case, 

I read it in thy looks; thy languisht grace. 

To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. 

Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me. 

Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? 

Are beauties there as proud as here they be? 

Do they above love to be loved, and yet 

Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? 

Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? 

Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace. 
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe. 
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low; 



52 BRITISH POEMS 

With shield of proof shield me from out the prease^ 
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw: 

make in me those civil wars to cease; 

1 will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, 
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, 
A rosy garland and a weary head: 
And if these things, as being thine in right. 
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me. 
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 



Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be. 
And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet. 
Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet 
More oft than to a chamber-melody. 
Now, blessed you bear onward blessed me 
To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet; 
My Muse and I must you of duty greet 
With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully. 
Be you still fair, honoured by public heed; 
By no encroachment wronged, nor time forgot; 
Nor blam'd for blood, nor sham'd for sinful deed; 
And that you know I envy you no lot 

Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss, — 
Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss. 



No more, my Dear, no more these counsels try; 

give my passions leave to run their race! 
Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace; 
Let folk o'ercharg'd with brain against me cry; 
Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye; 
Let me no steps but of lost labour trace; 

Let all the earth with scorn account my case, — 
But do not will me from mj^ Love to fly. 

1 do not envy Aristotle's wit. 

Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame; 

1 press. 



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 53 

Nor aught do care though some above me sit; 

Nor hope nor wish another course to fame, 

But that which once may win thy cruel heart: 
Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art. 

[From AsTKOPHEL and Stella. 1 

PHILOMELA 

The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth 
Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, 
(While late-bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth) 
Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making; 
And mournfully bewailing. 
Her throat in tunes expresseth 
What grief her breast oppresseth 
For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing. 

O Philomela fair, O take some gladness. 
That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: 
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; 
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth. 

Alas, she hath no other cause of anguish 

But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken, 
Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish, 
Full womanlike complains her will was broken. 
But I, who, daily craving. 
Cannot have to content me. 
Have more cause to lament me. 
Since wanting is more woe than too much having. 

O Philomela fair, etc. 



54 BRITISH POEMS 



DORUS TO PAMELA 

My sheep are thoughts, which I both guide and serve; 

Their pasture is fair hills of fruitless love; 

On barren sweets they feed, and feeding starve. 

I wail their lot, but will not other prove. 

My sheephook is wan Hope, which all upholds; 

My weeds Desire, cut out in endless folds; 

What wool my sheep shall bear, whilst thus they live. 
In you it is, you must the judgment give. 

[From Arcadia | 



SONNET 

Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust; 
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things; 
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust; 
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings. 
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might 
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be; 
Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light, 
That doth both shine, and give us sight to see. 
O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide 
In this small course which birth draws out to death, 
And think how ill becometh him to slide. 
Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath. 
Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see: 
Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me! 



EDMUND SPENSER 

EDMUND SPENSER [1552-1599] 

PROTHALAMION 

Calivie was the day, and through the trembling ayre 

Sweete breathing Zephyrus did softly play, 

A gentle spirit, that hghtly did delay 

Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre: 

When I, whom sullein care, 

Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay 

In princes court, and expectation vayne 

Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away. 

Like empty shaddowes, did aflict my brayne, 

Walkt forth to ease my payne 

Along the shoare of silver streaming Themmes; 

Whose rutty bancke, the which his river hemmes. 

Was paynted all with variable flowers. 

And all the meades adornd with daintie gemmes. 

Fit to decke maydens bowres. 

And crowne their paramours. 

Against the brydale day, which is not long: 

Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. 

There, in a meadow, by the rivers side, 

A flocke of nymphes I chaunced to espy. 

All lovely daughters of the flood thereby. 

With goodly greenish locks all loose untyde. 

As each had bene a bryde: 

And each one had a little wicker basket. 

Made of fine twigs entrayled curiously. 

In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket; 

And with fine fingers cropt full feateously 

The tender stalkes on hye. 

Of every sort, which in that meadow grew, 

They gathered some; the violet pallid blew, 

The little dazie, that at evening closes, 

Tb^ virgin lillie, and the primrose trew, 



56 BRITISH POEMS 

With store of vermeil roses, 

To decke their bridegromes posies 

Against the brydale day, wliich was not long: 

Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. 

With that I saw two swannes of goodly hewe 

Come softly swimming downe along the lee; 

Two fairer birds I yet did never see: 

The snow which doth the top of Pindus strew 

Did never whiter shew, 

Nor Jove himselfe, when he a swan would be 

For love of Leda, whiter did appear: 

Yet Leda was, they say, as white as he. 

Yet not so white as these, nor nothing nearer 

So purely white they were. 

That even the gentle streame, the which them bare, 

Seemd foule to them, and bad his billowes spare 

To wet their silken feathers, least they might 

Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre. 

And marre their beauties bright, 

That shone as heavens light. 

Against their brydale day, which was not long: 

Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. 

Eftsoones the nymphes, which now had flowers their fill. 

Ran all in haste to see that silver brood, 

As they came floating on the christal flood; 

Whom when they sawe, they stood amazed still. 

Their wondring eyes to fill. 

Them seemd they never saw a sight so fayre, 

Of fowles so lovely, that they sure did deeme 

Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre 

Which through the skie draw Venus silver teeme; 

For sure they did not seeme 

To be begot of any earthly seede, 

But rather angels or of angels breede: 

Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they say. 

In sweetest season, when each flower and weede 



EDMUND SPENSER 57 

The earth did fresh aray; 
So fresh they seemd as day, 
Even as their brydale day, which was not long: 
Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. 

Then forth they all out of their baskets drew 

Great store of flowers, the honour of the field, 

That to the sense did fragrant odours yield, 

All which upon those goodly birds they threw, 

And all the waves did strew, 

That like old Peneus waters they did seeme. 

When downe along by pleasant Tempes shore, 

Scattred with flowres, through Thessaly they streeme. 

That they appeare, through lillies plenteous store. 

Like a brydes chamber flore. 

Two of those nymphes, meane while, two garlands bound 

Of freshest flowres which in that mead they found, 

The which presenting all in trim arra}". 

Their snowie foreheads there withall they crownd, 

Whil'st one did sing this lay, 

Prepar'd against that day. 

Against their brydale day, which was not long: 

Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. 

"Ye gentle birdes, the worlds faire ornament. 
And heavens glorie, whom this happie hower 
Doth leade unto your lovers blissfull bower, 
Joy may you have and gentle hearts content 
Of your loves couplement: 
And let faire Venus, that is Queene of Love, 
With her heart-quelling sonne upon you smile. 
Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to remove 
All loves dislike, and friendships faultie guile 
For ever to assoile. 

Let endlesse peace your steadfast hearts accord. 
And blessed plentie wait upon your bord; 
And let your bed with pleasures chast abound, 
That fruitfull issue may to you afford, 
Which may your foes confound. 
And make your joyes redound. 



58 BRITISH POEMS 

Upon your brydale day, which is not long; 

Sweete Themmes, runne sofUie, till I end my song.' 

So ended she; and all the rest around 
To her redoubled that, her undersong, 
Which said, their bridale daye should not be long. 
And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground 
Their accents did resound. 
So forth those joyous birdes did passe along, 
Adowne the lee, that to them murmurde low. 
As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong, 
Yeat did bj'' signes his glad affection show. 
Making his streame run slow. 
And all the foule which in his flood did dwell 
Gan flock about these twaine, that did excell 
The rest so far as Cynthia doth shend 
The lesser starres. So they, enranged well. 
Did on those two attend. 
And their best service lend. 

Against their wedding day, which was not long: 
Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. 

At length they all to mery London came. 

To mery London, my most kj^ndly nurse, 

That to me gave this lifes first native sourse: 

Though from another place I take my name, 

An house of auncient fame. 

There when they came whereas those bricky towers 

The which on Themmes brode aged backe doe ryde, 

Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers, 

There whylome wont the Templar Knights to byde. 

Till they decayd through pride: 

Next whereunto there standes a stately place, 

Where oft I gained giftes and goodly grace 

Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell. 

Whose want too well now feeles my freendles case: 

But ah! here fits now well 

Olde woes, but joyes to tell. 

Against the brydale daye, which is not long: 

Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. 



EDMUND SPENSER 59 

Yet therein, now doth lodge a noble peer, 

Great Englands glory and the worlds wide wonder. 

Whose dreadful name late through all Spaine did thunder, 

And Hercules two pillars standing neere 

Did make to quake and feare. 

Faire branch of honour, flower of chevalrie. 

That fillest England with thy triumphs fame, 

Joy have thou of thy noble victorie. 

And endlesse happinesse of thine owne name 

That promiseth the same: 

That through thy prowesse and victorious arms 

Thy country may be freed from forraigne harms; 

And great Elisaes glorious name may ring 

Through al the world, filled with thy wide alarmes, 

\\ hich some brave Muse may sing 

To ages following: 

Upon the brydale daye, which is not long: 

Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. 

From those high towers this noble lord issuing. 

Like radiant Hesper when his golden hayre 

In th' ocean billows he hath bathed fayre. 

Descended to the rivers open viewing, 

With a great traine ensuing. 

Above the rest were goodly to bee scene 

Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature. 

Beseeming well the bower of anie queene. 

With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature. 

Fit for so goodly stature: 

That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight. 

Which decke the bauldricke of the heavens bright. 

They two, forth pacing to the rivers side. 

Received those two fair brydes, their loves delight. 

Which, at th' appointed tyde. 

Each one did make his bryde. 

Against their brydale day, which is not long: 

Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. 



60 BRITISH POEMS 



SONNETS 

More then most faire, full of the living fire 
Kindled above unto the Maker neere: 
No eies, but joyes, in which al powers conspire, 
That to the world naught else be counted deare: 
Thrugh your bright beams doth not the blinded guest 
Shoot out his darts to base affections wound; 
But angels come, to lead fraile mindes to rest 
In chast desires, on heavenly beauty bound. 
You frame my thoughts, and fashion me within. 
You stop my toung, and teach my hart to speake, 
You calme the storme that passion did begin, 
Strong thrugh your cause, but by your vertue weak. 

Dark is the world where your light shined never; 

Well is he borne that may behold you ever. 

Lyke as a ship, that through the ocean wyde, 
By conduct of some star, doth make her way; 
Whenas a storme hath dimd her trusty guyde. 
Out of her course doth wander far astray; 
So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray 
Me to direct, with cloudes is overcast, 
Doe wander now, in darknesse and dismay, 
Through hidden perils round about me plast. 
Yet hope I well, that when this storme is past. 
My Helice, the lodestar of my lyfe. 
Will shine again, and looke on me at last. 
With lovely light to cleare my cloudy grief, 

Till then I wander carefull, comfortlesse, 

In secret sorow, and sad pensivenesse. 

Men call you fayre, and you doe credit it, 

For that your selfe ye dayly such doe see: 

But the trew fayre, that is the gentle wit 

And vertuous Mind, is much more praysd of me. 

For all the rest, how ever fayre it be. 

Shall turne to nought and loose that glorious hew: 



EDMUND SPENSER 61 

But onely that is permanent, and free 

From frayle corruption, that doth flesh ensew. 

That is true Beautie: that doth argue you 

To be divine, and borne of heavenly seed, 

Derived from that fayre spirit from whom al true 

And perfect beauty did at first proceed. 

He onely fayre, and what he fayre hath made; 

All other fayre, lyke flowers, untymely fade. 

[From Amobetti.] 



LUCIFERA RIDETH FORTH FROM THE HOUSE 
OF PRIDE 

A STATELY pallace built of squared bricke, 
Which cunningly was without morter laid. 
Whose wals were high, but nothing strong, nor thick. 
And golden foile all over them displaid. 
That purest skye with brightnesse they dismaid: 
High lifted up were many loftie towres. 
And goodly galleries farre over laid. 
Full of faire windowes and delightful bowres; 

And on the top a diall told the timely howres. 

It was a goodly heape for to behould, 

And spake the praises of the workmans witt; 
But full great pittie, that so faire a mould 
Did on so weake foundation ever sitt: 
For on a sandie hill, that still did flitt 
And fall away, it mounted was full hie. 
That every breath of heaven shaked itt: 
And all the hinder parts, that few could spie. 

Were ruinous and old, but painted cunningly. 

Arrived there, they passed in forth right; 
For still to all the gates stood open wide: 
Yet charge of them w^as to a porter hight 
Cald Malvenii; who entrance none denide: 
Thence to the hall, which was on every side 



\ 

62 BRITISH POEMS | 

I 

With rich array and costly arras dight: ^ 

Infinite sorts of people did abide, | 

There waiting long to win the wished sight j 

Of her that was the Lady of that pallace bright. \ 

By them they passe, all gazing on them round, | 

And to the Presence mount; whose glorious vew i 

Their frayle amazed senses did confound: 

In living princes court none ever knew > 

Such endlesse richesse, and so sumptuous shew; ! 

Ne Persia selfe, the nourse of pompous pride, 
Like ever saw. And there a noble crew \ 

Of 'lordes and ladies stood on every side, ' 

Which with their presence faire the place much beautifide 

High above all a cloth of state was spred. 

And a rich throne, as bright as sunny day. 

On which there sate most brave embellished 

With royall robes and gorgeous array, ' 

A mayden Queene, that shone as Titans ray, » 

In glistring gold, and peerelesse pretious stone; 

Yet her bright blazing beautie did assay 

To dim the brightnesse of her glorious throne, i 

As envying her selfe, that too exceeding shone: i 

Exceeding shone, like Phoebus fayrest cliilde, 
That did presume his fathers firie wayne. 
And flaming mouthes of steedes unwonted wilde 
Through highest heaven with weaker hand to rayne; ! 

Proud of such glory and advancement vayne, ; 

While flashing beames do daze his feeble eyen, 
He leaves the welkin way most beaten playne, I 

And, rapt with whirling wheeles, inflames the skyen. 

With fire not made to burne, but fayrely for to shyne. 

So proud she shyned in her princely state, j 

Looking to heaven; (for earth she did disdayne) ^ 

And sitting high; (for lowlj^ she did hate) j 

Lo, underneath her scornefull feete was layne ' 



EDMUND SPENSER 63 

A dreadful! Dragon with an hideous trayne, 
And in her hand she held a mirrhour bright. 
Wherein her face she often vewed fayne. 
And in her selfe-lov'd semblance tooke delight; 
For she was wondrous faire, as any living wight. 

Of grieslj^ Pluto she the daughter was, 

And sad Proserpina, the queene of hell; 

Yet did she thinke her pearelesse worth to pas 

That parentage, with pride so did she swell; 

And thundring Jove, that high in heaven doth dwell. 

And wield the world, she claymed for her syre. 

Or if that any else did Jove excell: 

For to the highest she did still aspyre. 
Or if ought higher were than that, did it desyre. 

And proud Lucifera men did her call. 

That made her selfe a queene, and crownd to be; 
Yet rightfuU kingdome she had none at all, 
Ne heritage of native soveraintie. 
But did usurpe with wrong and tyrannie 
Upon the sceptre, which she now did hold: 
Ne ruld her realmes with lawes, but pollicie. 
And strong advizement of six wisards old, 

That with their counsels bad her kingdome did uphold. 

Soone as the Elfin Knight in presence came, 
And false Duessa, seeming lady fayre, 
A gentle husher, Vanitie by name. 
Made rowme, and passage for them did prepaire: 
So goodly brought them to the lowest stayre 
Of her high throne, where they on humble knee 
Making obeyssaunce, did the cause declare. 
Why they were come, her royall state to see. 

To prove the wide report of her great majestee. 

With loftie eyes, halfe loth to looke so lowe, 
She thanked them in her disdainefuU wise; 
Ne other grace vouchsafed them to showe 



64 BRITISH POEMS 

Of princesse worthy, scarse them bad arise. 
Her lordes and ladies all this while devise 
Themselves to setten forth to straungers sight: 
Some frounce their curled haire in courtly guise, 
Some prancke their ruffes, and others trimly dight 
Their gay attire: each others greater pride does spight. 

Goodly they all that knight do entertayne, 

Right glad with him to have increast their crew: 
But to Duess each one himselfe did payne 
All kindnesse and faire courtesie to shew; 
For in that court whylome her well they knew: 
Yet the stout Faerie mongst the middest crowd 
Thought all their glorie vayne in knightly vew. 
And that great Princesse too exceeding prowd. 

That to strange knight no better countenance allowd. 

Suddein upriseth from her stately place 

The royall Dame, and for her coche doth call: 

All hurtlen forth, and she with princely pace, 

As faire Aurora in her purple pall 

Out of the east the dawning day doth call: 

So forth she comes: her brightnesse brode doth blaze; 

The heapes of people thronging in the hall 

Do ride each other, upon her to gaze: 

Her glorious glitter and light doth all mens eyes amaze. 

So forth she comes, and to her coche does clyme. 
Adorned all with gold, and girlonds gay, 
That seemed as fresh as Flora in her prime. 
And strove to match, in royall rich array, 
Great Junoes golden chaire, the which they say 
The gods stand gazing on, when she does ride 
To Joves high house through heavens bras-paved way 
Drawne of faire pecocks, that excell in pride, 

And full of Argus eyes their tayles dispredden wide. 

But this was drawne of six unequall beasts. 
On which her six sage Counsellours did ryde, 



EDMUND SPENSER 65 

Taught to obay their bestiall beheasts, 
With like conditions to their kinds applyde: 
Of which the first, that all the rest did guyde, 
Was sluggish Idlenesse, the nourse of sin; 
Upon a s'outhfuU asse he chose to ryde, 
Arayd in habit blacke, and amis thin/ 
Like to an holy monck, the service to begin. 

And in his hand his portesse^ still he bare, 

That much was worne, but therein little redd, 

For of devotion he had little care, 

Still drownd in sleepe, and most of his dayes dedd; 

Scarse could he once uphold his heavie hed. 

To looken whether it were night or day: 

May seeme the wayne was very evill led, 

When such an one had guiding of the way. 

That knew not whether right he went, or else astray. 

From worldly cares himselfe he di^ esloyne. 

And greatly shunned manly exercise; 

From every worke he chalenged essoyne,^ 

For contemplation sake: yet otherwise. 

His life he led in lawlesse riotise; 

By which he grew to grievous malady; 

For in his lustlesse limbs, through evill guise, 

A shaking fever raignd continually: 
Such one was Idlenesse, first of this company. 

And by his side rode loathsome Gluttony, 
Deformed creature, on a filthie swyne; 
His belly was up-blowne with luxury. 
And eke with fatnesse swollen were his eyne; 
And like a crane his necke was long and fyne, 
With which he swallowed up excessive feast. 
For want whereof poore people oft did pyne; 
And all the way, most like a brutish beast. 

He spued up his gorge, that all did him deteast. 

very thin. ^ breviary, ^ lieep aloof. * excuse. 



66 BRITISH POEMS 

In greene vine leaves he was right fitly clad; 
For other clothes he could not weare for heat; 
And on his head an yvie girland had, 
From under which fast trickled downe the sweat: 
Still as he rode, he somewhat still did eat. 
And in his hand did beare a bouzing can, 
Of which he supt so oft, tliat on his seat 
His dronken corse he scarse upholden can: 

In shape and life more like a monster, than a man. 

Unfit he was for any worldly thing, 
And eke unliable once to stirre or go, 
Not meet to be of counsell to a king, 
Whose mind in meat and drinke was drowned so. 
That from his frend he seldome knew his fo: 
Full of diseases was his carcas blew. 
And a dry dropsie through his flesh did flow 
Which by misdiet daily greater grew: 

Such one was Gluttony, the second of that crew. 

And next to him rode lustfuU Lechery, 
Upon a bearded goat, whose rugged haire. 
And whally eyes (the signe of gelosy) 
Was like the person selfe whom he did beare. 
Who rough, and blacke, and filthy did appeare: 
Unseemely man to please faire ladies eye; 
Yet he of ladies oft was loved deare, 
When fairer faces were bid standen by: 

O who does know the bent of womens fantasy? 

In a greene gowne he clothed was full faire, 
Which underneath did hide his filthinesse. 
And in his hand a burning hart he bare, 
Full of vaine follies, and new fanglenesse, 
For he was false, and fraught with ficklenesse; 
And learned had to love with secret lookes; 
And well could daunce, and sing with ruefulnesse. 
And fortunes tell, and read in loving bookes. 

And thousand other wayes, to bait his fleshly hookes. 



EDMUND SPENSER 67 

Inconstant man, that loved all he saw, 
And lusted after all that he did love; 
Ne would his looser life be tide to law, 
But joyd weak wemens hearts to tempt, and prove. 
If from their loyall loves he might them move; 
Which lewdnesse fild him with reprochfuU paine 
Of that foule evill, which all men reprove, 
That rotts the marrow and consumes the braine: 

Such one was Lechery, the third of all this traine. 

And greedy Avarice by him did ride, 

Uppon a camell loaden all with gold; 

Two iron coffers hong on either side. 

With precious metall full as they might hold; 

And in his lap an heape of coine he told; 

For of his wicked pelfe his God he made. 

And unto hell him selfe for money sold; 

Accursed usurie was all his trade, 
And right and wrong ylike in equall ballaunce waide. 

His life was nigh unto deaths doore yplaste. 
And thred-bare cote, and cobled shoes, he ware, 
Ne scarse good morsell all his life did taste. 
But both from backe and belly still did spare. 
To fill his bags, and richesse to compare; 
Yet chylde ne kinsman living had he none 
To leave them to; but thorough daily care 
To get, and nightly feare to lose his owne. 

He led a wretched life, unto him selfe unknowne. 

Most wretched wight, whom nothing might suffise, 
Whose greedy lust did lacke in greatest store. 
Whose need had end, but no end covetise. 
Whose wealth was want, whose plenty made him pore. 
Who had enough, yett wished ever more; 
A vile disease, and eke in foote and hand 
A grievous gout tormented him full sore. 
That well he could not touch, nor go, nor stand: 

Such one was Avarice, the fourth of this faire band. 



68 BRITISH POEMS 

And next to him malicious Envie rode. 
Upon a ravenous wolfe, and still did chaw 
Betvveene his cankred teeth a venemous tode. 
That all the poison ran about his chaw; 
But inwardly he chawed his owne maw 
At neighbours wealth, that made him ever sad; 
(For death it was when any good he saw, 
And wept, that cause of weeping none he had) ; 

But when he heard of harnie, he wexed wondrous glad. 

All in a kirtle of discolourd say^ 

He clothed was, y pain ted full of eyes; 
And in his bosome secretly there lay 
An hatefull snake, the which he taile uptj^es 
In many folds, and mortall sting implyes. 
Still as he rode, he gnasht his teeth, to see 
Those heapes of gold with griple^' Covetyse; 
And grudged at the great felicitie 

Of proud Lucifera, and his owne companie. 

He hated all good workes and vertuous deeds. 
And him no lesse that any like did use. 
And who with gracious bread the hungry feeds 
His almes for want of faith he doth accuse; 
So every good to bad he doth abuse: 
And eke the verse of famous poets witt. 
He does backebite, and spightfuU poison spues 
From leprous mouth on all that ever writt: 

Such one vile Envie was, that fifte in row did sitt. 

And him beside rides fierce revenging Wrath, 
Upon a lion, loth for to be led; 
And in his hand a burning brond he hath, 
The which he brandisheth about his hed; 
His eyes did hurle forth sparkles fiery red, 
And stared sterne on all that him beheld; 
As ashes, pale of hew and seeming ded; 

^ quality. ^ grasping. 



EDMUND SPENSER 69 

And on his dagger still his hand he held. 
Trembling through hasty rage, when eholer in him sweld. 

His ruffin raiment all was staind with blood, 

Which he had spilt, and all to rags jTcnt, 

Through unadvized rashnesse woxen wood;^ 

For of his hands he had no governement, 

Ne cared for bloud in his avengement: 

But when the furious fitt was overpast, 

His cruell facts he often would repent; 

Yet, wilful! man, he never would forecast 
How many mischieves should ensue his heedlcsse hast. 

Full many mischief es follow cruell Wrath; 
Abhorred bloodshed and tumultuous strife. 
Unmanly murder, and unthrifty scath. 
Bitter despight, with rancours rusty knife. 
And fretting grief e the enemy of life; 
All these, and many evils moe haunt ire. 
The swelling splene, and frenzy raging rife. 
The shaking palsey, and Saint Fraunces fire; 

Such one was Wrath, the last of this ungodly tire. 

And, after all, upon the wagon beame 

Rode Sathan, with a smarting whip in hand. 
With which he forward lasht the laesie teme, 
So oft as Slowth still in the mire did stand. 
Huge routs of people did about them band, 
Showting for joy; and still before their way 
A foggy mist had covered all the land; 
And underneath their feet, all scattered lay 

Dead sculs and bones of men, whose life had gone astray. 

(From Book I, Canto IV, The Faerie Queene.] 



» mad. 



70 BRITISH POEMS f 

THE PAGEANT OF MUTABILITIE WHO MAIN- 
TAINETH SHE RULETH ALL THINGS 

So forth issew'd the seasons of the yeare: | 

First, lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of flowres > 

That freshly budded and new bloomes did beare ;; 

(In which a thousand birds had built their bowres, ,i 

That sweetly sung, to call forth paramours): ; 

And in his hand a javelin he did beare, | 

And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures) ! 

A gilt engraven morion he did weare; i 

That, as some did him love, so others did him feare. ; 

Then came the jolly Sommer, being dight ; 

In a thin silken cassock coloured greene, ' 

That was unlyned all, to be more light: ; 
And on his head a girlond well beseene 

He wore, from which, as he had chauffed been, j 
The sweat did drop; and in his hand he bore 

A bowe and shaftes, as he in forrest greene [ 

Had hunted late the libbard or the bore, | 

And now would bathe his limbes, with labor heated sore. i 

i 

Then came Autumne, all in yellow clad, I 

As though he joyed in his plentious store, j 

Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glad ! 

That he had banisht hunger, which to-fore ; 

Had by the belly oft him pinched sore. \ 

Upon his head a wreath, that was enrold 

With eares of corne of every sort, he bore: 

And in his hand a sickle he did holde, i 

To reape the ripened fruits the which the earth had yold. : 

Lastly came Winter, clothed all in frize, I 

Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill, ' 

Whil'st on his hoary beard his breath did freese, ] 

And the dull drops, that from his purpled bill, ' 

As from a limbeck, did adown distill. i 



EDMUND SPENSER 71 

In his right hand a tipped staffe he held. 
With which his feeble steps he stayed still: 
For he was faint with cold, and weak with eld; 
That scarse his loosed limbes he hable was to weld. 

These, marching softly, thus in order went, 
And after them the monthes all riding came: 
First, sturdy March, with brows full sternlj^ bent, 
And armed strongly, rode upon a ram. 
The same which over Hellespontus swam: 
Yet in his hand a spade he also hent. 
And in a bag all sorts of seeds ysame, 
Which on the earth he strowed as he went. 

And fild her womb with fruitfuU hope of nourishment. 

Next came fresh Aprill, full of lustyhed. 

And wanton as a kid whose home new buds: 

Upon a bull he rode, the same which led 

Europa floting through th' Argolick fluds: 

His homes were gilden all with golden studs. 

And garnished with garlonds goodly dight 

Of all the fairest flowres and freshest buds 

Which th' earth brings forth, and wet he seem'd in sight 

With waves, through which he waded for his loves delight. 

Then came faire May, the fayrest mayd on ground, 
Deckt all with dainties of her seasons pryde, 
And throwing flowres out of her lap around: 
Upon two brethrens shoulders she did ride. 
The twinnes of Leda; which on eyther side 
Supported her like to their soveraine queene. 
Lord! how all creatures laught, when her they spide, 
And leapt and daunc't as they had ravisht beene! 

And Cupid selfe about her fluttred all in greene. 

And after her came jolly June, arrayd 
All in greene leaves, as he a player were; 
Yet in his time he wrought as well as playd. 
That by his plough-yrons mote right well appeare: 



72 BRITISH POEMS 

Upon a crab he rode, that him did beare 
With crooked, crawhng steps an uncouth pase. 
And backward yode, as bargemen wont to fare 
Bending their force contrary to their face. 
Like that ungracious crew which faines demurest grace. 

Then came hot July boyhng Hke to fire, 
That all his garments he had cast away: 
Upon a lyon raging yet with ire 
He boldly rode, and made him to obay: 
It was the beast that whylome did forray 
The Nemsean forrest, till th' Amphytrionide 
Him slew, and with his hide did him array: 
Behinde his back a sithe, and by his side 

Under his belt he bore a sickle circling wide. 

The sixt was August, being rich arrayd 

In garment all of gold downe to the ground: 
Yet rode he not, but led a lovely mayd 
Forth by the lilly hand, the which was cround 
With eares of corne, and full her hand was found: 
That was the righteous virgin^ which of old 
Lived here on earth, and plenty made abound; 
But, after wrong was loved and justice solde. 

She left th' unrighteous world and was to heaven extold. 

Next him September marched eeke on foote; 
Yet was he heavy laden with the spoyle 
Of harvests riches, which he made his boot, 
And him enricht with bounty of the soyle: 
In his one hand, as fit for harvests toyle. 
He held a knife-hook; and in th' other hand 
A paire of waights, with which he did assoyle 
Both more and lesse, where it in doubt did stand, 

And equall gave to each as justice duly scannd. 

Then came October full of merry glee; 
For yet his noule" was totty^ of the must, 

1 Astraea ^ noddle, head, brain. ^ tottering, unsteady. 



EDMUND SPENSER 73 

Which he was treading in the wine-fats see, 
And of the joyous oyle, whose gently gust 
Made him so f rollick and so full of lust; 
Upon a dreadfull scorpion he did ride, 
The same which by Dianses doom unjust 
Slew great Orion: and eeke by his side 
He had his ploughing-share and coulter ready tyde. 

Next was November; he full grosse and fat. 

As fed with lard, and that right well might seeme; 

For he had been a fatting hogs of late. 

That yet his browes with sweat did reek and steem. 

And yet the season was full sharp and breem;* 

In planting eeke he took no small delight. 

Whereon he rode, not easie was to deeme; 

For it a dreadfull centaure was in sight. 

The seed of Saturne and faire Nais, Chiron hight. 

And after him came next the chill December: 
Yet he through merry feasting which he made. 
And great bonfires, did not the cold remember; 
His Saviours birth his mind so much did glad: 
Upon a shaggy-bearded goat he rade. 
The same wherewith Dan Jove in tender yeares, 
They say, was nourisht by th' Idsean mayd; 
And in his hand a broad deepe boawle he beares. 

Of which he freely drinks an health to all his peeres. 

Then came old January, wrapped well 
In many weeds to keep the cold away; 
Yet did he quake and quiver like to quell, 
And bio we his nayles to warme them if he may: 
For they were numbd with holding all the day 
An hatchet keene, with which he felled wood, 
And from the trees did lop the needlesse spray: 
Upon an huge great earth-pot steane^ he stood. 

From whose wide mouth there flowed forth the Romane floud, 

* fierce, bitter. ^ large jar. 



74 BRITISH POEMS 

And lastly came cold February, sitting 
In an old wagon, for he could not ride; 
Drawne of two fishes for the season fitting, 
Which through the flood before did softly slyde 
And swim away: yet had he by his side 
His plough and harnesse fit to till the ground, 
And tooles to prune the trees, before the pride 
Of hasting Prime did make them burgein round. 

So past the twelve months forth, and their dew places found. 

And after these there came the Day and Night, 
Riding together both with equall pase, 
Th' one on a palfrey blacke, the other white: 
But Night had cover'd her uncomely face 
With a blacke veile, and held in hand a mace. 
On top whereof the moon and stars were pight. 
And Sleep and Darknesse round about did trace: 
But Day did beare, upon his scepters hight. 

The goodly sun, encompast all with beames bright. 

Then came the Howres, faire daughters of high Jove 
' And timely Night, the which were all endewd 
With wondrous beauty fit to kindly love; 
But they were virgins all, and love eschewd. 
That might forslack the charge to them fore-shewd 
By mighty Jove, who did them porters make 
Of heaven's gate (whence all the gods issued) 
W^hich they did dayly watch, and nightly wake 
By even turnes, ne ever did their charge forsake. 

And after all came Life, and lastly Death: 

Death with most grim and griesly visage scene. 
Yet is he nought but parting of the breath; 
Ne ought to see, but like a shade to weene, 
Unbodied, unsoul'd, unheard, unseene: 
But Life was like a faire young lusty boy. 
Such as they faine Dan Cupid to have beene, 
Full of delightfull health and lively joy, 

Deckt all with flowres, and wings of gold fit to employ. 



EDMUND SPENSER 75 

When these were past, thus gan the Titanesse: 
"Lo! mighty mother, now be judge, and say 
Whether in all thy creatures more or lesse 
Change doth not raign and beare the greatest sway: 
For who sees not that Time on all doth pray? 
But times do change and move continually: 
So nothing here long standeth in one stay: 
Wherefore, this lowere world who can deny 

But to be subject still to Mutabilitie?'' 



[From Book VII, Canto VII, The Faerie Queene. 



MUTABILITY SUBJECT TO ETERNITY 

When I bethinke me on that speech whyl-eare 
Of Mutability, and well it way. 
Me seemes, that though she all unworthj^ were 
Of the heav'ns rule, yet, very sooth to say. 
In all things else she beares the greatest sway; 
Which makes me loath this state of life so tickle. 
And love of things so vaine, to cast away, 
Whose flowring pride, so fading and so fickle. 

Short Time shall soon cut down with his consuming sickle. 

Then gin I thinke on that which Nature sayd. 
Of that same time when no more change shall be. 
But stedfast rest of all things, firmely stayd 
Upon the pillours of Eternity, 
That is contrayr to Mutabilitie: 
For all that moveth doth in change delight: 
But thence-forth all shall rest eternally 
With him that is the God of Sabbaoth hight: 

O that great Sabbaoth-God graunt me that Sabaoths 
sight! 1 

[Book VIII, The Faebie Queene.] 

' Either the death of Spenser halted The Faerie Queene at this point, or the poet 
?linquished his design. But as Book VIII — of which these two stanzas alone seem to 
e all that was written — is called "Unperfite," the first is the more probable. 



76 BRITISH POEMS 

JOHN LYLY [1554?-! 606] 

APELLES' SONG 

Cupid and my Campaspe play'd 

At cards for kisses; Cupid paid. 

He stakes his quiver, bows and arrows, 

His mother's doves and team of sparrows; 

Loses them too; then down he throws 

The coral of his lip, the rose 

Growing on's cheek (but none know^s how); 

With these, the crystal of his brow. 

And then the dimple of his chin; 

All these did my Campaspe win. 

At last he set her both his eyes; 

She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 

O Love, has she done this to thee.'^ 

What shall, alas! become of me? 

[From Alexander and Campaspe] 



THOMAS LODGE [1558.^-1625] 

ROSALYND'S MADRIGAL 

Love in my bosom, like a bee. 

Doth suck his sweet; 
Now with his wings he plays with me. 
Now with his feet. 
Within mine ej-es he makes his nest. 
His bed amidst my tender breast; 
My kisses are his daily feast. 
And yet he robs me of my rest: 
Ah! wanton, will ye? 

And if I sleep, then percheth he 
With pretty jflight, 



GEORGE PEELE 77 

And makes his pillow of my knee 

The livelong night. 
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; 
He music plays if so I sing; 
He lends me every lovely thing, 
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting: 

Whist, wanton, will ye? 

Else I with roses every day 

Will whip you hence. 
And bind you, when you long to play. 
For your offence; 
I'll shut my eyes to keep you in; 
I'll make you fast it, for your sin; 
I'll count your power not worth a pin: 
Alas! what hereby shall I win, 
If he gainsay me? 

What if I beat the wanton boy 

With many a rod? 
He will repay me with annoy, 
Because a god. 
Then sit thou safely on my knee. 
And let thy bower my bosom be; 
Lurk in mine eyes; I like of thee. 
O Cupid! so thou pity me, 
Spare not, but play thee. 



GEORGE PEELE [155S?-1597?] 

DUET 

(Enone. Fair and fair, and twice so fair. 
As fair as any may be; 
The fairest shepherd on our green, 
A love for any lady. 



78 



BRITISH POEMS 



Paris. Fair and fair, and twice so fair, 
As fair as any may be; 
Thy love is fair for thee alone, 
And for no other lady. 

(En. My love is fair, my love is gay, 

As fresh as bin the flowers in May: 

And of my love my roundelay. 
My merry, merry roundelay, 

Concludes with Cupid's curse — 

"They that do change old love for new. 

Pray gods they change for worse!" 

Ambo. Fair and fair, etc. 

[From The Arraignment of Paris.] 



GEORGE CHAPMAN [1559P-1634] 

OF MAN 

Man is so sovereign and divine a state. 

That not, contracted and elaborate. 

The world he bears about with him alone; 

But even the Maker makes his breast His throne. 



ROBERT GREENE [1560.^-1592] 



SEPHESTIA'S SONG 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee. 
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. 

Mother's wag, pretty boy. 

Father's sorrow, father's joy; 

When thy father first did see 

Such a boy by him and me. 

He was glad, I was woe. 

Fortune changed made him so 



ROBERT SOUTHWELL 79 

When he left his pretty boy. 
Last his sorrow, first his joy. 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, 
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. 

Streaming tears that never stint. 

Like pearl drops from a flint, 

Fell by course from his eyes. 

That one another's place supplies; 

Thus he grieved in every part. 

Tears of blood fell from his heart. 

When he left his pretty boy. 

Father's sorrow, father's joy. 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, 
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. 

The wanton smiled, father wept, 

Mother cried, baby leapt; 

More he crow'd, more we cried. 

Nature could not sorrow hide: 

He must go, he must kiss 

Child and mother, baby bless, 

For he left his pretty boy. 

Father's sorrow, father's joy. 
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, 
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. 



ROBERT SOUTHWELL [1561.^-1595] 

THE BURNING BABE 

As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow. 
Surprised I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow; 
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near, 
A pretty babe all burning bright did in the air appear. 
Who, scorched with exceeding heat, such floods of tears did shed 
As though His floods should quench His flames with what His 
tears were fed; 



80 BRITISH POEMS 

"Alas!" quoth He, "but newly born, in fiery heats of fry, 
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I! 
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns; 
Love is the fire and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns ; 
The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals; 
The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defiled souls; 
For which, as now on fire I am, to work them to the good, 
So will I melt into a bath, to wash them in my blood." 
With this He vanish'd out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away. 
And straight I called unto mind that it was Christmas-day. 



SAMUEL DANIEL [1562-1619] 

SLEEP 

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, 
Brother to Death, in silent darkness born: 
Relieve my anguish, and restore the light; 
With dark-forgetting of my care, return! 
And let the day be time enough to mourn 
The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth: 
Let waking eyes suflSce to wail their scorn. 
Without the torment of the night's untruth. 
Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires. 
To model forth the passions of the morrow; 
Never let rising sun approve you liars. 
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow. 

Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain; 

And never wake to feel the day's disdain. 

/From Sonnets to Delia.) 



MICHAEL DRAYTON 81 

MICHAEL DRAYTON [1563-1631] 

LOVE'S FAREWELL 

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part. 

Nay, I have done, you get no more of me! 

And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, 

That thus so cleanly I myself can free. 

Shake hands for ever! Cancel all our vows! 

And when we meet at any time again, 

Be it not seen in either of our brows 

That we one jot of former love retain. 

Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath. 

When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies. 

When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death. 

And Innocence is closing up his eyes — 

Now, if thou would'st, when all have given him over, 
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover! 

[From the sonnet-sequence Idea.] 



BALLAD OF AGINCOURT 

Fair stood the wind for France, 
When we our sails advance. 
Nor now to prove our chance. 

Longer will tarry; 
But putting to the main. 
At Caux, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train, 

Landed King Harry. 

And taking many a fort, 
Furnished in warlike sort, 
Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt 

In happy hour; 
Skirmishing day by day. 



82 BRITISH POEMS 

With those that stopp'd his way. 
Where the French general lay 
With ail his power. 

Which in his height of pride. 
King Henry to deride, 
His ransom to provide 

To the King sending. 
Which he neglects the while. 
As from a nation vile. 
Yet with an angry smile 

Their fall portending. 

And turning to his men, 
Quoth our brave Henry then, 
" Though they to one be ten. 

Be not amazed. 
Yet have we well begun; 
Battles so bravely won, 
Have ever to the sun 

By fame been raised. 

"And for myself," quoth he, 
" This my full rest shall be, 
England ne'er mourn for me. 

Nor more esteem me. 
Victor I will remain, 
Or on this earth lie slain. 
Never shall she sustain 

Loss to redeem me. 

*' Poitiers and Cressy tell. 
When most their pride did swell. 
Under our swords they fell: 

No less our skill is 
Than when our Grandsire great. 
Claiming the regal seat, 
By many a warlike feat 

Lopp'd the French Ulies.'* 



MICHAEL DRAYTON 83 

The Duke of York so dread 
The eager vanward led: 
With the main, Henrj^ sped, 

Amongst his henchmen. 
Exeter had the rear, 
A braver man not there: 
O Lord, how hot they were. 

On the false Frenchmen! 

They now to fight are gone. 
Armour on armour shone. 
Drum now to drum did groan. 

To hear was wonder; 
That with the cries they make. 
The very earth did shake, 
Trumpet to trumpet spake. 

Thunder to thunder. 

Well it thine age became, 
O noble Erpingham, 
Which didst the signal aim 

To our hid forces; 
When from a meadow by. 
Like a storm suddenly. 
The English archery 

Stuck the French horses. 

With Spanish yew so strong. 
Arrows a cloth-yard long. 
That like to serpents stung. 

Piercing the weather; 
None from his fellow starts. 
But playing manly parts. 
And like true English hearts. 

Stuck close together. 

When down their bows they threw. 
And forth their bilboes drew. 
And on the French they flew. 
Not one was tardy; 



84 BRITISH POEMS 

Arms were from shoulders sent, 
Scalps to the teeth were rent, 
Down the French peasants went. 
Our men were hardy. 

This while our noble King, 
His broad sword brandishing, 
Down the French host did ding, 

As to o'erwhelm it. 
And many a deep wound lent, 
His arms with blood besprent, 
And many a cruel dent 

Bruised his helmet. 

Gloucester, that duke so good. 
Next of the royal blood. 
For famous England stood. 

With his brave brother; 
Clarence, in steel so bright, 
Though but a maiden knight. 
Yet in that furious fight 

Scarce such another. 

Warwick in blood did wade, 
Oxford the foe invade, 
And cruel slaughter made. 

Still as they ran up; 
Suffolk his axe did ply, 
Beaumont and Willoughby, 
Bare them right doughtily 

Ferrers and Fanhope. 

Upon Saint Crispin's day 
Fought was this noble fray. 
Which fame did not delay 

To England to carry; 
O when shall English men 
With such acts fill a pen. 
Or England breed again 

Such a King Harry .^ 



CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 85 

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE [1564-1593] 

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE 

Come live with me and be my Love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove 
That valleys, groves, hills and fields. 
Woods or steepy mountain yields. 

And we will sit upon the rocks 
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

And I will make thee beds of roses 
And a thousand fragrant posies, 
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. 

A gown made of the finest wool. 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull, 
Fair lined slippers for the cold. 
With buckles of the purest gold. 

A belt of straw and ivy buds. 
With coral clasps and amber studs: 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me and be my Love. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delight each May-morning: 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Then live with me and by my Love. 



86 BRITISH POEMS 

DESCRIPTION OF HERO 

On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood, 

In view and opposite two cities stood, 

Sea-borderers, disjoined by Neptune's might; 

The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight. 

At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair, 

Whom young Apollo courted for her hair. 

And offered as a dower his burning throne, 

Where she should sit, for men to gaze upon. 

The outside of her garments were of lawn. 

The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn; 

Her wide sleeves green, and bordered with a grove, 

Where Venus in her naked glory strove 

To please the careless and disdainful eyes 

Of proud Adonis, that before her lies; 

Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain. 

Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain. 

Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath. 

From whence her veil reached to the ground beneath; 

Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves. 

Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives. 

Many would praise the sweet smell as she past. 

When 'twas the odor which her breath forth cast; 

And there, for honey, bees have sought in vain. 

And, beat from thence, have lighted there again. 

About her neck hung chains of pebblestone, 

Which, lightened by her neck, like diamonds shone. 

She ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind 

Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her mind. 

Or warm or cool them, for they took delight 

To play upon those hands, they were so white. 

Buskins of shells, all silvered, used she. 

And branched with blushing coral to the knee; 

Where sparrows perched of hollow pearl and gold, 

Such as the world would wonder to behold: 

Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills. 

Which, as she went, would chirrup through the bills. 

Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pined, 

And, looking in her face, was strooken blind. 



RICHARD BARNFIELD 87 

But this is true; so like was one the other, 
As he imagined Hero was his mother; 
And oftentimes into her bosom flew, 
About her naked neck his bare arms threw. 
And htid his childish head upon her breast, 
And, with still panting rockt, there took his rest. 
So lovely-fair was Hero, Venus' nun. 
As Nature w^ept,' thinking she was undone. 
Because she took more from her than she left, 
And of such wondrous beauty her bereft; 
Therefore, in sign her treasure suffered wrack, 
Since Hero's time hath half the world been black. 

[From Hero and Leandeb.] 



RICHARD BARNFIELD [1574-1627] 

AN ODE 

As it fell upon a day 
In the merry month of May, 
Sitting in a pleasant shade 
Which a grove of myrtles made. 
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing. 
Trees did grow, and plants did spring; 
Everything did banish moan. 
Save the nightingale alone: 
She, poor bird, as all forlorn. 
Leaned her breast up-till a thorn, 
And there sung the dolefull'st ditty, 
That to hear it was great pity: 
"Fie, fie, fie," now would she cry; 
"Teru, teru!" by and by; 
That to hear her so complain, 
Scarce I could from tears refrain; 
For her griefs, so lively shown. 
Made me think upon mine own. 
Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain! 
None takes pity on thy pain: 



88 BRITISH POEMS 

Senseless trees they cannot hear thee; 

Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee: ^ 

King Pandion he is dead; 

All thy friends are lapped in lead; > 

All thy fellow birds do sing, ! 

Careless of thy sorrowing. | 

Even so, poor bird, like thee, | 

None alive w411 pity me. j 

Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled. 

Thou and I were both beguiled. j 

Every one that flatters thee I 

Is no friend in misery. ! 

Words are easy, like the wind; j 

Faithful friends are hard to find: i 

Every man will be thy friend , 

Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend; 
But if store of crowns be scant. 

No man will supply thy want. ' 

If that one be prodigal, ] 

Bountiful they will him call, \ 

And with such-like flattermg, 
"Pity but he were a king;" 
If he be addict to vice, 

Quickly him they will entice; ; 

If to women he be bent, j 

They have at commandement: i 

But if Fortune once do frown. 

Then farewell his great renown; i 

They that fawned on him before | 

Use his company no more. i 

He that is thy friend indeed, 
He will help thee in thy need: 

If thou sorrow, he will weep; i 

If thou wake, he cannot sleep; I 

Thus of every grief in heart 
He with thee doth bear a part. 

These are certain signs to know i 

Faithful friend from flattering foe. { 



WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 89 

WILLIAM SHAKSPERE [1564-1616] 

\^NUS BEWAILETH THE DEATH OF ADONIS 

"My tongue cannot express my grief for one. 
And yet," quoth she, "behold two Adons dead! 
My sighs are blown aw^ay, my salt tears gone. 
Mine eyes are turned to fire, my heart to lead: 

Heavy heart's lead, melt at mine eyes' red fire! 

So shall I die by drops of hot desire. 

"Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost! 
What face remains alive that's worth the viewing? 
Whose tongue is music now? what canst thou boast 
Of things long since, or anything ensuing? 

The flowers are sweet, their colors fresh and trim; 

But true-sweet beauty lived and died with him. 

"Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature w^ear! 

Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you: 

Having no fair to lose, you need not fear; 

The sun doth scorn j^ou and the wind doth hiss you: 
But when Adonis lived, sun and sharp air 
Lurked like tw^o thieves, to rob him of his fair. 

"And therefore would he put his bonnet on. 
Under whose brim the gaudy sun w'ould peep; 
The wind would blow it off, and, bemg gone. 
Play with his locks: then w^ould Adonis weep; 
And straight, in pity of his tender years. 
They both would strive who first should dry his tears. 

"To see his face the lion walked along 

Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him; 

To recreate himself when he hath sung, 

The tiger would be tame and gently hear him; 
If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey 
And never fright the silly lamb that day. 



90 BRITISH POEMS 

"When he beheld his shadow in the brook, 
The fishes spread on it their golden gills; 
When he was by, the birds such pleasure took, 
That some would sing, some other in their bills 

Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries; 

He fed them with his sight, they him with berries. 

"But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar. 
Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave. 
Ne'er saw the beauteous livery that he wore; 
Witness the entertainment that he gave: 
If he did see his face, why then I know 
He thought to kiss him, and hath killed him so. 

"'Tis true, 'tis true; thus was Adonis slain: 
He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear. 
Who did not whet his teeth at him again. 
But by a kiss thought to persuade him there; 
And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine 
Sheathed unaware the tusk in his soft groin. 

"Had I been toothed like him, I must confess. 
With kissing him I should have killed him first; 
But he is dead, and never did he bless 
My youth with his; the more am I accurst." 
With this, she falleth in the place she stood. 
And stains her face with his congealed blood. 

She looks upon his lips, and they are pale; 

She takes him by the hand, and that is cold; 

She whispers in his ears a heavy tale. 

As if they heard the woeful words she told; 
She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes. 
Where, lo, two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies; 

Two glasses, where herself herself beheld 
A thousand times, and now no more reflect; 
Their virtue lost, wherein they late excelled. 



WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 91 

And every beauty robbed of his effect: 

"Wonder of time," quoth she, "this is my spite, 
That, thou being dead, the day should yet be Ught. 

"Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy: 

Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend: 

It shall be waited on with jealousy. 

Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end, 
Ne'er settled equally, but high or low. 
That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe. 

"It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud; 

Bud, and be blasted, in a breathing-while; 

The bottom poison, and the top o'erstrawed 

With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile: 
The strongest body shall it make most weak. 
Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak. 

"It shall be sparing, and too full of riot. 
Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures; 
The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet. 
Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures; 
It shall be raging-mad and silly-mild, 
Make the j^oung old, the old become a child. 

"It shall suspect where is no cause of fear; 

It shall not fear where it should most mistrust; 

It shall be merciful and too severe. 

And most deceiving when it seems most just; 

Perverse it shall be where it shows most toward; 

Put fear to valour, courage to the coward. 

"It shall be cause of war and dire events, 

And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire; 

Subject and servile to all discontents, 

As dry combustions matter is to fire: 

Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy, 
They that love best their loves shall not enjoy." 



92 BRITISH POEMS 

By this, the boy that by her side lay killed 
Was melted like a vapor from her sight. 
And in his blood that on the ground lay spilled, 
A purple flower sprung up, chequered with white. 
Resembling well his pale cheeks and the blood 
Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood. 

She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell, 

Comparing it to her Adonis' breath. 

And says, within her bosom it shall dwell. 

Since he himself is reft from her by death: 

She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears 
Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears. 

"Poor flower," quoth she, "this was thy father's guise — 

Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire — 

For every little grief to wet his eyes: 

To grow unto himself was his desire. 

And so 'tis thine; but know, it is as good 
To wither in my breast as in his blood. 

"Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast; 

Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right: 

Lo, in this hollow cradle take thy rest. 

My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night; 
There shall not be one minute in an hour 
Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower." 

IFrom Venu3 and Adonis.] 



WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 93 

LYRICS FROM THE PLAYS 

SILVIA 

Who is Silvia? what is she, 

That all our swains commend her? 

Holy, fair, and wise is she; 

The heaven such grace did lend her, 

That she might admired be. 

Is she kind as she is fair? 

For beauty lives with kindness. 
Love doth to her eyes repair. 

To help him of his blindness, 
And, being helped, inhabits there. 

Then to Silvia let us sing, 

That Silvia is excelling; 
She excels each mortal thing 

Upon the dull earth dwelling: 
To her let us garlands bring. 

[From Two Gentlemen of Vebona.] 



UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE 

Under the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me 
And turn his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird's throat 
Come hither! come hither! come hither! 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun 
And loves to live i' the sun. 



94 BRITISH POEMS 

Seeking the food he eats 
And pleased with what he gets, 
Come hither! come hither! come hither! 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 



[From As You Like It.] 



BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind! 
Thou art not so unkind 
As man's ingratitude; 
Thy tooth is not so keen. 
Because thou art not seen. 
Although thy breath be rude. 

Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly: 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: 

Then, heigh ho, the holly! 

This life is most jolly. 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky! 
That dost not bite so nigh 

As benefits forgot; 
Though thou the waters warp. 
Thy sting is not so sharp 

As friend remembered not. 



Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! etc. 

[From A3 Yod Like It.] 



WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 95 



O MISTRESS MINE 

O Mistress mine, where are you roaming? 
O stay and hear! your true-love's coming 

That can sing both high and low; 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting: 
Journeys end in lovers meeting 

Every wise man's son doth know. 

What is love? 'tis not hereafter; 
Present mirth hath present laughter; 

What's to come is still unsure: 
In delay there lies no plenty: 
Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty, 

Youth's a stuff will not endure. 

[From Twelfth Night.] 



LAMENT 

Come away, come away, Death, 

And in sad c^'press let me be laid; 
Fly away, fly away, breath; 

I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, 

O prepare it! 
My part of death, no one so true 
Did share it. 

Not a flower, not a flow^er sweet 

On my black coflSn let there be strown; 
Not a friend, not a friend greet 

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown : 
A thousand thousand sighs to save, 

Lay me, O, where 
Sad true lover never find my grave 
To weep there. 

[From Twelfth Night.] 



96 BRITISH POEMS 



TAKE, O, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY 

Take, O, take those lips away, 

That so sweetly were forsworn; 
And those eyes, the break of day, 

Lights that do mislead the morn: 
But my kisses bring again, 

Bring again; 
Seals of love, but sealed in vain. 

Sealed in vain! 

[From Measure for Meabuee.] 



HARK! HARK! THE LARK! 

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings. 

And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chalieed flowers that lies; 
And winkmg Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes: 
With every thing that pretty is. 

My lady sweet, arise: 
Arise, arise! 

[From Cymbeline.] 



DIRGE 

Fear no more the heat o' th' sun, 
Nor the furious winter's rages; 

Thou thy worldly task hast done. 

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: 

Golden lads and girls all must. 

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 



WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 97 

Fear no more the frown o' th' great; 

Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; 
Care no more to clothe and eat; 

To thee the reed is as the oak: 
The Sceptre, Learning, Physic, must 
All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning-flash, 

Nor th' all-dreaded thunder-stone; 
Fear not slander, censure rash; 

Thou hast finished joy and moan: 
All lovers young, all lovers must 
Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

No exorciser harm thee! 

Nor no witchcraft charm thee! 
Ghost unlaid forbear thee! 

Nothing ill come near thee! 
Quiet consummation have; 
And renowned be thy grave! 

[From Cymbeline.] 



WHERE THE BEE SUCKS 

Where the bee sucks, there suck I: 

In a cowslip's bell I lie; 

There I couch, when owls do cry: 

On the bat's back I do fly 

After summer merrily. 

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now. 

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough! 

[From The Tempest.] 



BRITISH POEMS 



A SEA DIRGE 

Full fathom five thy father lies; 

Of his bones are coral made; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes: 

Nothing of him that doth fade 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: 

Ding-dong. 
Hark! now I hear them, — Ding-dong, bell. 

[From The Tempest ] 



SONNETS 

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day.' 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate: 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 
And summer's lease hath all too short a date: 
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 
And often is his gold complexion dimmed; 
And every fair from fair sometime declines. 
By chance or nature's changing course un trimmed; 
But thy eternal summer shall not fade 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; 
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade. 
When in eternal lines to time thou growest: 
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see. 
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 
I all alone beweep my outcast state. 
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries 
And look upon myself and curse my fate — 
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 
Featured like him, like him with friends possest. 



WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 99 

Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, 
With what I most enjoy contented least — 
(Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising). 
Haply I think on thee, and then my state, 
Like to the lark at break of day arising 
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate! 
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings 
That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 

I summon up remembrance of things past, 

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. 

And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: 

Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow. 

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night. 

And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe. 

And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight: 

Then can I grieve at grievances forgone. 

And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 

The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan. 

Which I new pay as if not paid before. 

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend. 
All losses are restored and sorrows end. 

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced 
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age; 
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed. 
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage; 
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain 
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore. 
And the firm soil win of the watery main. 
Increasing store with loss and loss with store; 
When I have seen such interchange of state. 
Or state itself confounded to decay. 
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate — 
That Time will come and take my love away. 
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose 
But weep to have that which it fears to lose. 



100 BRITISH POEMS 

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, 
But sad mortality o'er-sways their power, 
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, 
Whose action is no stronger than a flower? 
O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out 
Against the wreckful siege of battering days. 
When rocks impregnable are not so stout. 
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays? 
O fearful meditation! where, alack. 
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? 
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? 
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? 
O, none, unless this miracle have might. 
That in black ink my love may still shine bright. 

That time of year thou mayst in me behold 
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang 
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, 
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. 
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day 
As after sunset fadeth in the west, 
Which by and by black night doth take away. 
Death's second self, that seals up all .in rest. 
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire 
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie. 
As the death-bed whereon it must expire. 
Consumed with that which it was nourished by. 

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong. 
To love that well which thou must leave ere long. 

How like a winter hath my absence been 
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! 
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! 
What old December's bareness every where! 
And yet this time removed was summer's time. 
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase. 
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, 
Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease: 
Yet this abundant issue seemed to me 



WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 101 

But hope of orphans and unfathered fruit; 
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, 
And, thou away, the very birds are mute; 
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer 
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near. 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 

Admit impediments. Love is not love 

Which alters when it alteration finds. 

Or bends with the remover to remove: 

O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark 

That looks on tempests and is never shaken; 

It is the star to every wandering bark, 

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. 

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 

Within his bending sickle's compass come; 

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 

But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 

If this be error and upon me proved, 

I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth. 
Thrall to these rebel powers that thee array. 
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, 
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay.^ 
Why so large cost, having so short a lease. 
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend .^ 
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess. 
Eat up thy charge.^ is this thy body's end.^ 
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, 
And let that pine to aggravate thy store; 
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; 
Within be fed, without be rich no more: 

So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men. 
And Death once dead, there's no more dying then. 



102 BRITISH POEMS 

THOMAS NASHE [1567-1601] 

SPRING 

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; 
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, 
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing. 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! 

The palm and may^ make country houses gay. 
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day. 
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo. 

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet. 
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit. 
In every street these tunes our ears do greet. 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! 
Spring! the sweet Spring! 

[From Summer's Last Will.] 



THOMAS CAMPION [1567P-1619] 

CHERRY-RIPE 

There is a garden in her face 

Where roses and white lilies blow; 
A heavenly paradise is that place. 
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow": 

There cherries grow which none may buy 
Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. 

Those cherries fairly do enclose 
Of orient pearl a double row, 

* flowers of the hawthorn. ? flower (verb). 



THOMAS CAMPION 103 

Which when her lovely laughter shows, 
They look like rosebuds filled with snow; 
Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy 
Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. 

Her eyes like angels watch them still; 

Her brows like bended bows do stand, 
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill 
All that attempt with eye or hand 
Those sacred cherries to come nigh 
Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. 



WHEN TO HER LUTE CORINNA SINGS 

When to her lute Corinna sings. 

Her voice revives the leaden strings, 

And doth in highest notes appear, 

As any challenged echo clear: 

But when she doth of mourning speak, 

E'en with her sighs, the strings do break. 

And as her lute doth live or die, 

Led by her passion, so must I: 

For when of pleasure she doth sing. 

My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring. 

But if she doth of sorrow speak, 

E'en from my heart the strings do break. 



A RENUNCIATION 

Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white. 
For all those rosy ornaments in thee, — 

Thou art not sweet, though made of mere delight. 
Nor fair, nor sweet — unless thou pity me! 

I will not soothe thy fancies; thou shalt prove 

That beauty is no beauty without love. 



104 BRITISH POEMS 

Yet love not me, nor seek not to allure 

My thoughts with beauty, were it more divine: 

Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure, 

I'll not be wrapped up in those arms of thine. 

Now show it, if thou be a woman right — 

Embrace and kiss and love me in despite! 



THE MAN OF LIFE UPRIGHT 

The man of life upright. 
Whose guiltless heart is free 

From all dishonest deeds, 
Or thought of vanity; 

The man whose silent days 
In harmless joys are spent. 

Whom hopes cannot delude 
Nor sorrow discontent: 

That man needs neither towers 
Nor armour for defence, 

Nor secret vaults to fly 
From thunder's violence. 

He only can behold 
With unafTrighted eyes 

The horrors of the deep 
And terrors of the skies. 

Thus scorning all the cares 
That fate or fortune brings. 

He makes the heaven his book, 
His wisdom heavenly things; 

Good thoughts his only friends, 
His wealth a well-spent age, 

The earth his sober inn 
And quiet pilgrimage. 



SIR HENRY WOTTON 105 



SIC TRANSIT GLORIA MUNDI 

Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me; 

For while thou view'st me with thy fading light 
Part of my life doth still depart with thee. 

And I still onward haste to my last night: 
Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly — 
So every day we live, a day we die. 

But O ye nights, ordained for barren rest, 
How are my days deprived of life in j^ou 

When heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest. 
By feigned death life sweetly to renew! 

Part of my life in that, you life deny: 

So every day we live, a day we die. 



SIR HENRY WOTTON [1568-1639] 

THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE 

How happy is he born and taught 
That serveth not another's will; 

Whose armour is his honest thought. 
And simple truth his utmost skill; 

Whose passions not his masters are; 

Whose soul is still prepared for death. 
Untied unto the world by care 

Of public fame or private breath; 

Who envies none that chance doth raise. 
Nor vice; who never understood 

How deepest wounds are given by praise. 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good; 

Who hath his life from rumours freed; 
Whose conscience is his strong retreat; 



106 BRITISH POEMS 

Whose state can neither flatterers feed. 
Nor ruin make oppressors great; 

Who God doth late and early pray 
More of his grace than gifts to lend; 

And entertains the harmless day 
With a religious book or friend — 

This man is freed from servile bands 
Of hope to rise or fear to fall: 

Lord of himself, though not of lands, 
And, having nothing, yet hath all. 



SIR JOHN DAVIES [1569-1626] 

TRUE KNOWLEDGE OF THE SOUL 

Thou! that hast fashioned twice this soul of ours, 
So that she is by double title Thine! 
Thou only knowst her nature and her powers; 
Her subtle form Thou only canst define! 

To judge herself, she must herself transcend; 
As greater circles comprehend the less; 
But she wants power her own powers to extend; 
As fettered men cannot their strength express. 

But Thou, bright morning Star!^ Thou, rising Sun! 
Which, in these later times, hast brought to light 
Those mysteries that, since the world begun. 
Lay hid in darkness and eternal night — 

Thou, like the sun, dost with indifferent ray 
Into the palace and the cottage shine. 
And showst the soul, both to the clerk and lay. 
By the clear lamp of thy oracle Divine.'^ 

' See Revelation xxii, 16. 



THOMAS DEKKER 107 

This Lamp, through all the regions of my brain, 

Where my soul sits, doth spread such beams of grace. 
As now, methinks, I do distinguish plain 
Each subtle line of her immortal face. 

[From NoscE Teipsdm.] 



THOMAS DEKKER [1570P-1641] 

SONG 

Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain. 

Saint Hugh be our good speed! 
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain. 

Nor helps good hearts in need. 

Trowl the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl. 

And here, kind mate, to thee: 
Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul. 

And down it merrily. 

Down a down! hey down a down! 

Hey derry derry, down a down! 
Ho well done; to me let come! 

Ring, compass, gentle joy. 

Trowl the bowl, etc. 

(From The Shoemaker's Holiday.] 



RUSTIC SONG 

Haymakers, rakers, reapers, and mowers, 

Wait on your Summer-Queen! 
Dress up with musk-rose her eglantine bowers, 
Daffodils strew the green! 
Sing, dance, and play, 
'Tis holiday! 



108 BRITISH POEMS 

The sun does bravely shine 
On our ears of corn. 

Rich as a pearl 

Comes every girl — 
This is mine, this is mine, this is mine! 
Let us die ere away they be borne. 

Bow to the sun, to our Queen, and that fair one 

Come to behold our sports: 
Each bonny lass here is counted a rare one, 
As those in princes' courts. 
These and we 
With country glee 
Will teach the woods to resound. 
And the hills with echoes hollow: 
Skipping lambs 
Their bleating dams 
'Mongst kids shall trip it round — 
For joy thus our wenches we follow. 

Wind, jolly huntsmen, your neat bugles shrilly! 

Hounds, make a lusty cry! 
Spring up, you falconers, partridges freely, 
Then let your brave hawks fly! 
Horses amain. 
Over ridge, over plain, 
The dogs have the stag in chase, 
'Tis a sport to content a king. 
So ho! ho! through the skies 
How the proud bird flies. 
And sousing, kills with a grace! 
Now the deer falls — hark! how they ring! 

[From The Son's Darling, by Dekker and Ford.] 



BEN JONSON 109 

BEN JONSON [1573P-1637]* 

SONG TO CELIA 

Drink to me only with thine eyes, 

And I will pledge with mine; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath. 

Not so much honouring thee. 
As giving it a hope that there 

It could not withered be. 
But thou thereon didst only breathe. 

And sent'st it back to me; 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear. 

Not of itself, but thee. 

HYMN TO DIANA 

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair. 

Now the sun is laid to sleep. 
Seated in thy silver chair 

State in wonted manner keep: 
Hesperus entreats thy light. 
Goddess excellently bright. 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 

Dare itself to interpose; 
Cynthia's shining orb was made 

Heaven to clear when day did close: 
Bless us then with wished sight, 
Goddess excellently bright. 

"* See note on page 130. 



no BRITISH POEMS 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart 

And thy crystal-shining quiver; 
Give unto the flying hart 

Space to breathe, how short soever: 
Thou that mak'st a day of night. 
Goddess excellently bright! 

[From Cynthia's Revels.] 



THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS 

See the chariot at hand here of Love, 

Wherein my Lady rideth! 
Each that draws is a swan or a dove. 

And well the car Love guideth. 
As she goes, all hearts do duty 

Unto her beauty; 
And enamour'd, do wish, so they might 

But enjoy such a sight. 
That they still were to run by her side. 
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. 

Do but look on her eyes, they do light 

All that Love's world compriseth! 
Do but look on her hair, it is bright 

As Love's star when it riseth! 
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother 

Than words that soothe her; 
And from her arched brows, such a grace 

Sheds itself through the face 
As alone there triumphs to the life 
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. 

Have you seen but a bright lily grow, 

Before rude hands have touched it? 
Have you marked but the fall of the snow 

Before the soil hath smutched it? 
Have you felt the wool of the beaver? 



BEN JONSON 111 

Or swan's down ever? 
Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar? 

Or the nard in the fire? 
Or have tasted the bag of the bee? 
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she! 



ECHO'S LAMENT OF NARCISSUS 

Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears: 

Yet slower, yet; O faintly, gentle springs: 
List to the heavy part the music bears. 

Woe weeps out her division, when she sings. 
Droop herbs and flowers. 
Fall grief in showers. 
Our beauties are not ours; 
O, I could still. 
Like melting snow upon some craggy hill. 

Drop, drop, drop, drop, 
Since nature's pride is now a withered daffodil. 

[From Cynthia's Revels.] 



SONG 

Still to be neat, still to be drest. 

As you were going to a feast; 

Still to be powdered, still perfumed: 

Lady, it is to be presumed. 

Though art's hid causes are not found. 

All is not sweet, all is not sound. 

Give me a look, give me a face. 

That makes simplicity a grace; 

Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: 

Such sweet neglect more taketh me 

Than all the adulteries of art: 

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 

[From Epicene; or, The Silent Woman.] 



112 BRITISH POEMS 



AN HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER 

Hear me, O God! 
A broken heart 
Is my best part: 
Use still thy rod, 
That I may prove. 
Therein, Thy love. 

If thou hadst not 
Been stern to me. 
But left me free, 

I had forgot 

Myself and Thee. 

For, sin's so sweet, 
As minds ill-bent 
Rarely repent. 

Unless they meet 
Their punishment. 

Who more can crave 
Than Thou hast done.^^ 
Thou gav'st a Son 

To free a slave. 

First made of nought. 
With all since bought. 

Sin, death, and hell 
His glorious Name 
Quite overcame; 

Yet I rebel. 

And slight the same. 

But, I'll come in 
Before my loss 
Me farther toss; 

As sure to win 
Under his cross. 



JOHN DONNE 113 

JOHN DONNE [1573-1631] 

SONG 

Go and catch a falling star, 
Get with child a mandrake root, 
Tell me where all times past are, 
Or who cleft the devil's foot; 
Teach me to hear mermaids singing, 
Or to keep off envy's stinging, 

And find 

What wind 
Serves to advance an honest mind. 

If thou be'st born to strange sights. 
Things invisible go see, 
Ride ten thousand days and nights 
Till age snow white hairs on thee; 
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me 
All strange wonders that befell thee, 

And swear 

No w^here 
Lives a woman true and fair. 

If thou find'st one let me know. 
Such a pilgrimage were sweet; 
Yet do not; I would not go. 
Though at next door we might meet. 
Though she were true when you met her, 
And last till you write your letter, 

Yet she / 

Will be 
False, ere I come, to two or three. 



114 BRITISH POEMS 



THE DREAM 



Dear love, for nothing less than thee ! 
Would I have broke this happy dream; 

It was a theme | 

For reason, much too strong for fantasy. | 

Therefore thou waked'st me wisely; yet j 

My dream thou brok'st not, but continued'st it. i 

Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice ] 

To make dreams truths, and fables histories; i 

Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best ' 

Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest. j 

I 

As lightning, or a taper's light, i 
Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me; 

Yet I thought thee— \ 
For thou lov'st truth — an angel, at first sight; 
But when I saw thou saw'st my heart. 

And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art, | 

When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when j 

Excess of joy would wake me, and cam'st then, j 

I must confess it could not choose but be j 

Profane to think thee anything but thee. i 

Coming and staying show'd thee, thee; ! 

But rising makes me doubt that now j 

Thou art not thou ; . j 

That love is weak where fear's as strong as he: j 

'Tis not all spirit, pure and brave, | 

If mixture it of fear, shame, honour have. ] 
Perchance as torches, which must ready be. 
Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me. 
Thou cam'st to kindle, go'st to come: then I 

Will dream that hope again, but else would die. | 



JOHN DONNE 115 



LOVE'S DEITY 



I LONG to talk with some old lover's ghost 
Who died before the God of Love was born. 

I cannot think that he who then loved most 
Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn. 

But since this God produced a destiny; 

And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be; 
I must love her that loves not me. 

Sure, they which made him god, meant not so much, 
Nor he in his young godhead practiced it. 

But when an even flame two hearts did touch. 
His office was indulgently to fit 

Actives to passives. Correspondency 

Only his subject was; it cannot be 
Love till I love her who loves me. 

But every modern god will not extend 

His vast prerogative as far as Jove. 
To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, 

All is the purlieu of the God of Love. 
O! were we waken'd by this tyranny 
To ungod this child again, it could not be 

I should love her who loves not me. 

Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I, 

As though I felt the worst that Love could do? 

Love may make me leave loving, or might try 
A deeper plague, to make her love me too; 

Which, since she loves before, I'm loth to see. 

Falsehood is worse than hate; and that must be, 
If she whom I love, should love me. 



116 BRITISH POEMS 



THE FUNERAL 



Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm 

Nor question much 
That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm; 
The mystery, the sign, you must not touch. 

For 'tis my outward soul, 
Viceroy to that which, unto heav'n being gone. 

Will leave this to control 
And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution. 

For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall 

Through every part 
Can tie those parts, and make me one of all; 
Those hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art 

Have from a better brain. 
Can better do't: except she meant that I 

By this should know my pain. 
As prisoners then are manacled, when they're condemn'd 
to die. 

Whate'er she meant by't, bury it with me. 

For since I am 
Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry 
If mto other hands these reliques came. 

As 'twas humility 
T'afford to it all that a soul can do. 

So 'tis some bravery 
That, since you would have none of me, I bury some of you. 



THE WILL 

Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe, 
Great Love, some legacies. Here I bequeath 
Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see; 
If they be blind, then Love, I give them thee: 
My tongue to Fame: to ambassadors mine ears: 
To women, or the sea, my tears. 



JOHN DONNE 117 

Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore 
By making me serve her who had twenty more, 
That I should give to none but such as had too much before. 

My constancy I to the planets give; 

My truth to them who at the court do live: 

Mine ingenuity and openness 

To Jesuits: to buffoons my pensiveness: 

My silence to any who abroad hath been: 

My money to a Capuchin. 
Thou, Love, taught'st me, by appointing me 
To love there, where no love receiv'd can be. 
Only to give to such as have an incapacity. 

My faith I give to Roman Catholics: 

All my good works unto the schismatics 

Of Amsterdam: my best civility 

And courtship, to an university: 

My modesty I give to shoulders bare: 

My patience let gamesters share. 
Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me 
Love her that holds my love disparity, 
Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity. 

I give my reputation to those 

Which were my friends; my industry to foes: 

To schoolmen I bequeath my doubtfulness: 

My sickness to physicians, or excess: 

To Nature, all that I in rhyme have writ: 

And to my company my wit. 
Thou, Love, by making me adore 
Her, who begot this love in me before, 
Taught'st me to make as though I gave, when I did but restore. 

To him for whom the passing bell next tolls 
I give my physic books: my written rolls 
Of moral counsels I to bedlam give: 
My brazen medals, unto them which live 



118 BRITISH POEMS 

In want of bread: to them whicli pass among 

All foreigners, my English tongue. 
Thou, Love, by making me love one 
Who thinks her friendship a fit portion 
For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion. 

Therefore I'll give no more; but I'll undo 
The world by dj'ing, because love dies too. 
Then all your beauties will be no more worth 
Than gold in mines where none doth draw it forth: 
And all your graces no more use shall have 

Than a sun-dial on a grave. 
Thou Love, taughtest me, by making me 
Love her, who doth neglect both me and thee. 
To invent and practise this one way to annihilate all three. 



A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER 

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun. 

Which was my sin, though it were done before.'' 

Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run, 
And do run still, though still I do deplore.^ 

When Thou hast done. Thou hast not done; 
For I have more. 

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won 
Others to sin, and made my sins their door.'* 

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun 
A year or two, but wallowed in a score.' 

When Thou hast done. Thou hast not done; 
For I have more. 

I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun 
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; 

But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son 
Shall shine as He shines now, and heretofore; 

And, having done that. Thou hast done; 
I fear no more. 



JOHN DONNE 119 



FORGET 



If poisonous minerals, and if that tree 
Whose fruit threw death on else-immortal us, 
If lecherous goats, if serpents envious 
Cannot be damned, alas! why should I be? 
Why should intent or reason, born in me. 
Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous? 
And, mercy being easy and glorious 
To God, in his stern wrath why threatens He? 
— But who am I, that dare dispute with Thee? 
O God, O! of Thine only worthy blood, 
And my tears, make a heavenly Lethean flood, 
And drown in it my sin's black memory. 

That Thou remember them, some claim as debt; 

I think it mercy if Thou wilt forget. 



DEATH 

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee 
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; 
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow 
Die not, poor Death: nor yet canst thou kill me. 
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be, 
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow; 
And soonest our best men with thee do go — 
Rest of their bones and souls' delivery! 
Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, 
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; 
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well, 
And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then? 
One short sleep past, we wake eternally. 
And Death shall be no more. Death, thou shalt die! 



120 BRITISH POEMS 



JOHN FLETCHER [1579-1625] 

SONG TO BACCHUS 

God Ly^us, ever young. 
Ever honoured, ever sung; 
Stained with blood of lusty grapes. 
In a thousand lusty shapes. 
Dance upon the mazer's brim, 
In the crimson liquor swim; 
From thy plenteous hand divine 
Let a river run with wine; 
God of youth, let this day here 
Enter neither care nor fear! 

[From Valentian.] 



WEEP NO MORE 

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan; 
Sorrow calls no time that's gone; 
Violets plucked the sweetest rain 
Makes not fresh nor grow again; 
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully; 
Fate's hid ends eyes cannot see; 
Joys as winged dreams fly fast. 
Why should sadness longer last? 
Grief is but a wound to woe; 
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no mo. 

[From The Queen of Cobinth.1 



FRANCIS BEAUMONT 121 



ASPATIA'S SONG 

Lay a garland on my hearse 

Of the dismal yew; 
Maidens, willow branches bear; 

Say, I died true. 

My love was false, but I was firm 

From my hour of birth. 
Upon my buried body lie 

Lightly, gentle earth! 

(From The Maid's Tragedy.] 



FRANCIS BEAUMONT [1584-1616] 

LINES ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER 

Mortality, behold and fear! 

What a change of flesh is here! 

Think how many royal bones 

Sleep within this heap of stones; 

Here they lie had realms and lands, 

Who now want strength to stir their hands; 

Where from their pulpits sealed with dust 

They preach, "In greatness is no trust." 

Here's an acre sown indeed 

With the richest royal'st seed 

That the earth did e'er suck in, 

Since the first man died for sin; 

Here the bones of birth have cried, 

"Though gods they were, as men they died." 

Here are sands, ignoble things, 

Dropt from the ruined sides of kings: 

Here's a world of pomp and state. 

Buried in dust, once dead by fate. 



122 BRITISH POEMS \ 

I 

i 
GILES FLETCHER [1585P-1623] j 

! 
NATURE AWAITETH THE TRIUMPH OF CHRIST 

Say, Earth, why hast thou got thee new attire. 
And stick'st thy habit full of dasies red? 

Seems that thou doest to some high thought aspire, ' 

And some new-found-out Bridegroom mean'st to wed: 
Tell me, ye trees, so fresh apparelled — ; 

So never let the spiteful canker waste you! \ 

So never let the heav'ns with light'ning blast you! ; 

Why go you now so trimly drest, or whither haste you? ' 

Answer me, Jordan, why thy crooked tide ] 

So often wanders from his nearest way, j 

As though some other way thy stream would slide, ' 
And fain salute the place where something lay? 

And you, sweet Birds, that, shaded from the ray, i 

Sit carolling, and piping grief away, i 

The while the lambs do hear you dance and play — i 

Tell me, sweet Birds, what is it you so fain would saj^^ | 

I 

And thou, fair Spouse of Earth, that every year I 

Gett'st such a numerous issue of thy bride, ! 

How chance thou hotter shin'st, and draw'st more near? , 

Sure thou somewhere some worthy sight hast spy'd, | 

That in one place, for joy, thou canst not bide! \ 

And you dead swallows, that so lively now ; 

Through the flit air you winged passage row, i 
How could new life into your frozen ashes flow? 

Ye Primroses and purple Violets — '. 

Tell me, why blaze ye from your leafy bed, ^ 
And woo men's hands to rend you from your seats. 

As though you would somewhere be carried, } 

With fresh perfumes, and velvets garnished? | 



I 



GILES FLETCHER 123 

But, ah! I need not ask — 'tis surely so! 
You all would to your Saviour's triumph go, 
There would ye all await, and humble homage do. 

There should the Earth herself (with garlands new. 

And lovely flow'rs embellished) adore: 

Such roses never in her garland grew; 

Such lilies never in her breast she wore; 

Like beauty never yet did shine before: 
There should the sun another Sun behold. 
From whence himself borrows his locks of gold 

That kindle heav'n and Earth with beauties manifold. 

There might the Violet and Primrose sweet ^ 
Beams of more lively and more lovely grace. 
Arising from their beds of incense meet; 
There should the Swallow see new life embrace 
Dead ashes, and the grave unheal his face 

To let the living from his bowels creep. 

Unable longer his own dead to keep: 
There heav'n and Earth should see their Lord awake from sleep: 

Their Lord! before, by other judg'd to die; 
Now judge of all himself: before, forsaken 
Of all the world, that from his aid did fly; 
Now, by the Saints into their armies taken: 
Before, for an unworthy man mistaken; 

Now, worthy to be God confest; before. 

With blasphemies by all the basest lore; 
Now, worshipped by Angels that him low adore. 

[From Christ's Triumph After Death.] 



1 exhale. 



124 BRITISH POEMS 

JOHN WEBSTER [1580P-1625?] 
DIRGE 

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren. 

Since o'er shady groves they hover 

And with leaves and flowers do cover 

The friendless bodies of unburied men. 

Call unto his funeral dole 

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole 

To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm 

And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm; 

But keep the wolf far thence that's foe to men, 

For with his nails he'll dig them up again. 

[From The White Devil.] 

THREE ANONYMOUS LYRICS 



WALY, waly up the bank, 
And waly waly down the brae. 

And waly waly yon burn-side 

Where I and my Love wont to gae! 

1 leant my back unto an aik, 

I thought it was a trusty tree; 
But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, 
Sae my true Love did lichtly ^ me. 

O waly waly, but love be bonny 

A little time while it is new; 
But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld 

And fades awa' like morning dew. 
O wherefore should I busk my liead.'^ 

Or wherefore should I kame my hair-f^ 
For my true Love has me forsook, 

And says he'll never loe me mair. 

* slight. 



ANONYMOUS 125 

Now Arthur-seat" sail be my bed; 

The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me: 
Saint Anton's well sail be my drink, 

Since my true Love has forsaken me. 
Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw 

And shake the green leaves aff the tree? 

gentle Death, when wilt thou come? 
For of my life I am wearie. 

'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, 

Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie; 
'Tis not sic cauld that makes me crj'. 

But my Love's heart grown cauld to me. 
When we came in by Glasgow town 

We were a comely sight to see; 
My Love was clad in the black velvet, 
.And I mysell in cramasie.^ 

But had I wist, before I kist, 

That love had been sae ill to win; 

1 had lockt my heart in a case of gowd 
And pinn'd it with a siller pin. 

And, O! if my young babe were born, 

And set upon the nurse's knee, 
And I mysell were dead and gane. 

And the green grass growing over me! 



II 

My Love in her attire doth shew her wit, 
It doth so well become her: 
For every season she hath dressings fit. 
For winter, spring, and summer. 

No beauty she doth miss 

When all her robes are on: 

But Beauty's self she- is 

When all her robes are gone. 

2 Arthur's Seat is a hill near Edinburgh: oa one of its slopes is Saint Anton's well 

3 crimson. 



126 BRITISH POEMS 

m 

Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting 

Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours, 
And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours, 
My eyes present me with a double doubting: 
For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes 
Whether the roses be your lips, or your lips the roses. 



WILLIAM DRUMMOND [1585-1649] 

SUMMONS TO LOVE 

Phcebus, arise! 

And paint the sable skies 

With azure, white, and red: 

Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed 

That she may thy career with roses spread: 

The nightingales thy coming each-where sing: 

Make an eternal Spring! 

Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; 

Spread forth thy golden hair 

In larger locks than thou wast wont before, 

And emperor-like decore 

With diadem of pearl thy temples fair: 

Chase hence the ugly night 

Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. 

— This is that happy morn. 

That day, long-wished day 

Of all my life so dark, 

(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn 

And fates my hopes betray). 

Which, purely white, deserves 

An everlasting diamond should it mark. 

This is the morn should bring unto this grove 

My Love, to hear and recompense my love. 



WILLIAM DRUMMOND 127 

Fair King, who all preserves, 

But show thy blushing beams, 

And thou two sweeter eyes 

Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams 

Did once thy heart surprise. 

Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise: 

If that ye winds would hear 

A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre. 

Your furious chiding stay; 

Let Zephyr only breathe. 

And with her tresses play. 

— The winds all silent are, 

And Phoebus in his chair 

Ensaffroning sea and air 

Makes vanish every star: 

Night like a drunkard reels 

Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels: 

The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue. 

The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue; 

Here is the pleasant place — 

And nothing wanting is, save She, alas! 



HUMAN FOLLY 

Of this fair volume which we World do name 
If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care, 
Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame, 
We clear might read the art and wisdom rare: 
Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame, 
His providence extending everywhere, 
His justice which proud rebels doth not spare. 
In every page, no period of the same. 
But silly we, like foolish children, rest 
Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold. 
Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best, 
On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold; 
Or if by chance we staj^ our minds on aught, 
It is some picture on the margin wrought. 



128 BRITISH POEMS 



SAINT JOHN BAPTIST 



The last and greatest herald of Heaven's King 
Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild. 
Among that savage brood the woods forth bring. 
Which he more harmless found than man, and mild. 
His food was locusts, and what there doth spring, 
With honey that from virgin hives distill'd; 
Parcji'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing 
Made him appear, long since from earth exiled. 
There burst he forth: "All ye whose hopes rely 
On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn. 
Repent, repent, and from old errors turn! " 
Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry? 
Only the echoes, which he made relent. 
Rung from their flinty caves, " Repent! Repent! " 



GEORGE WITHER [1588-1667] 

THE LOVER'S RESOLUTION 

Shall I, wasting in despair. 
Die, because a woman's fair? 
Or make pale my cheeks with care, 
'Cause another's rosy are? 
Be she fairer than the day. 
Or the flowery meads in May, 
If she be not so to me. 
What care I how fair she be? 

Should my seely heart be pined, 
'Cause I see a woman kind? 
Or a well-disposed nature 
Joined with a lovely feature? 
Be she meeker, kinder than 
Turtle dove, or pelican, 

If she be not so to me. 
What care I how kind she be? 



WILLIAM BROWNE 129 

Shall a woman's virtues move 

Me to perish for her love? 

Or her well-deservings known 

Make me quite forget mine own? 

Be she with that goodness blest 

Which may gain her name of best. 
If she be not such to me, 
What care I how good she be? 

'Cause her fortune seems too high, 
Shall I play the fool, and die? 
He that bears a noble mind, 
If not outward helps he find. 
Thinks what, with them, he would do. 
That, without them, dares her woo. 
And unless that mind I see. 
What care I though great she be? 

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 

I will ne'er the more despair! 

If she love me (this believe!) 

I will die, ere she shall grieve! 

If she slight me when I woo, 

I can scorn, and let her go! 
For if she be not for me. 
What care I for whom she be? 



WILLIAM BROWNE [1591-1643] 

MAN 

Like to a silkworm of one year. 
Or like a wronged lover's tear. 
Or on the waves a rudder's dint. 
Or like the sparkles of a flint. 
Or like to little cakes perfumed. 
Or fireworks made to be consumed — 



130 BRITISH POEMS 

Even such is man, and all that trust 

In weak and animated dust. 

The silkworm droops; the tear's soon shed; 

The ship's way lost; the sparkle dead; 

The cake is burnt; the firework done; 

And man as these as quickly gone. 



ON A ROPE-MAKER HANGED 

Here lies a man much wronged in his hopes, 
Who got his wealth backwards by making of ropes: 
It was his hard chance in his fortunes to falter 
For he lived by the ropes, and died by the halter. 



ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF PEMBROKE' 

Underneath this sable hearse 
Lies the subject of all verse: 
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother: 
Death, ere thou hast slain another 
Fair and learned and good as she. 
Time shall throw a dart at thee. 

Marble piles let no man raise 
To her name: for after days 
Some kind woman, born as she, 
Reading this, like Niobe 
Shall turn marble, and become 
Both her mourner and her tomb. 



•For upward of a century this epitaph has been ascribed to Ben Jonson. Its 
authorship was eventually established when it was found in a MS. in Trinity College, 
Dublin, signed with Browne's name. The second, and vastly inferior sextain, is 
possibly by another hand, that of the (then) Earl of Pembroke. 



ROBERT HERRICK 131 

ROBERT HERRICK [1591-1674] 

CHERRY-RIPE 

Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry. 
Full and fair ones, come and buy! 
If so be you ask me where 
They do grow, I answer, "There, 
Where my Julia's lips do smile; 
There's the land, or cherry-isle, 
AYhose plantations fully show 
All the year where cherries grow." 

HOW ROSES CAME RED 

Roses at first were white, 

Till they could not agree 
Whether my Sapho's breast 

Or they more white should be. 

But being vanquished quite, 
A blush their cheeks bespread; 

Since which, believe the rest. 
The roses first came red. 

SWEET DISORDER 

A sweet disorder in the dress 
Kindles in clothes a wantonness: 
A lawn about the shoulders thrown 
Into a fine distraction — 
An erring lace, which here and there 
Enthrals the crimson stomacher — 
A cuff neglectful, and thereby 
Ribbands to flow confusedly — 
A winning wave, deserving note. 
In the tempestuous petticoat — 



132 BRITISH POEMS 

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie 
I see a wild civihty — 
Do more bewitch me than when art 
Is too precise in every part. 



UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES 



Whenas in silks my Julia goes 

Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows 

The liquefaction of her clothes. 

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see 
That brave vibration each way free; 
O how that glittering taketh me! 



TO THE VIRGINS TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME 

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. 

Old Time is still a-flying: 
And this same flower that smiles to-day 

To-morrow will be dying. 

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun. 

The higher he's a-getting 
The sooner will his race be run. 

And nearer he's to setting. 

That age is best which is the first. 
When youth and blood are warmer; 

But being spent, the worse, and worst 
Times, still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time; 

And while ye may, go marry: 
For having lost but once your prime, 
^ You may for ever tarry. 



ROBERT HERRICK 133 



TO DAFFODILS 

Fair Daffodils! we weep to see 

You haste away so soon; 
As yet the early-rising sun 

Has not attained his noon. 
Stay, stay. 

Until the hasting day 
Has run 

But to the even-song; 
And, having prayed together, we 

Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay, as you; 

We have as short a spring; 
As quick a growth to meet decay 

As you, or any thing. 
We die, 

As your hours do, and dry 
Away 

Like to the summer's rain; 
Or as the pearls of morning's dew 

Ne'er to be found again. 



A NIGHT PIECE 

Her eyes the glowworm lend thee. 
The shooting stars attend thee; 

And the elves also. 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will-o'-th'-Wisp mislight thee. 
Nor snake or slowworm bite thee; 

But on, on thy way. 

Not making a stay. 
Since ghost there's none to affright thee. 



134 BRITISH POEMS 



Let not the dark thee cumber; I 

What though the moon does shimber? 

The stars of the night i 

Will lend thee their light, 
Like tapers clear, without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee. 
Thus, thus to come unto me; 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 



A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS HOUSE 

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell 

Wherein to dwell, 
A little house, whose humble roof 

Is weather-proof, 
Under the spars of which I lie 

Both soft and dry; 
Where Thou, my chamber for to ward, 

Hast set a guard 
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep ^ 

Me while I sleep. 
Low is my porch, as is my fate, 

Both void of state; 
And yet the threshold of my door 

Is worn by th' poor, 
Who thither come, and freely get 

Good words or meat. 
Like as my parlour so my hall 

And kitchen's small; 
A Httle buttery, and therein 

A little bin. 
Which keeps my little loaf of bread 

LTnchipp'd, unflead; 
Some little sticks of thorn or briar 

Make me a fire. 



ROBERT HERRICK 135 

Close by whose living coal I sit, 

And glow like it. 
Lord, I confess too, when I dine, 

The pulse is Thine, 
And all those other bits that be 

There placed by Thee; 
The worts, the purslain, and the mess 

Of water-cress. 
Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent; 

And my content 
Makes those, and my beloved beet, 

To be more sweet. 
'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth 

With guiltless mirth. 
And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink. 

Spiced to the brink. 
Lord, 'tis Thy plentj'-dropping hand 

That soils my land, 
And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, 

Twice ten for one; 
Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay 

Her egg each day; 
Besides my healthful ewes to bear 

Me twins each year; 
The while the conduits of my kine 

Run cream, for wine. 
All these, and better. Thou dost send 

Me, to this end. 
That I should render, for my part, 

A thankful heart; 
Which, fired with incense, I resign. 

As wholly thine. 
But the acceptance, that must be. 

My Christ, by Thee. 



136 BRITISH POEMS 



CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING 

Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn 
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. 
See how Aurora throws her fair 
Fresh-quilted colours through the air: 
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 
The dew bespangling herb and tree. 
Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east 
Above an hour since: yet you not dressed; 
Nay! not so much as out of bed.^ 
When all the birds have matins said 
And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin. 
Nay, profanation, to keep in, 
Whenas a thousand virgins on this day 
Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. 

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen 

To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green. 

And sweet as Flora. Take no care 

For jewels for your gown or hair: 

Fear not; the leaves will strew 

Gems in abundance upon you: 
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept. 
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept; 

Come and receive them while the light 

Hangs on the dew-locks of the night: 

And Titan on the eastern hill 

Retires himself, or else stands still 
Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying: 
Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying. 

Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming mark 
How each field turns a street, each street a park 

Made green and trimm'd with trees; see how 

Devotion gives each house a bough 

Or branch: each porch, each door, ere this 

An ark, a tabernacle is. 



ROBERT HERRICK 137 

Made up of white-thorn, neatly interwove; 
As if here were those cooler shades of love. 

Can such delights be in the street 

And open fields and we not see 't? 

Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey 

The proclamation made for Ma}- 
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; 
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maymg. 

There's not a budding boy or girl this day 
But is got up, and gone to bring in May. 

A deal of youth, ere this, is come 

Back, and with white- thorn laden, home. 

Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream 

Before that we have left to dream: 
And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth. 
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: 

Many a green-gown has been given; 

Many a kiss, both odd and even: 

Many a glance too has been sent 

From out the eye, love's firmament; 
Many a jest told of the keys betraying 
This night, and locks pick'd, yet we're not a-Maying. 

Come, let us go while we are in our prime; 
And take the harmless folly of the time. 

We shall grow old apace, and die 

Before we know our liberty. 

Our life is short, and our days run 

As fast away as does the sun; 
And, as a vapour or a drop of rain. 
Once lost, can ne'er be found again, 

So when or you or I are made 

A fable, song, or fleeting shade. 

All love, all liking, all delight 

Lies drown'd with us in endless night. 
Then while time serves, and we are but decaying. 
Come, my Corinna, come let's go a-Maying. 



138 BRITISH POEMS 



UPON PREW HIS MAID j 



In this little urn is laid 
Prewdence Baldwin, once my maid. 
From whose happy spark here let 
Spring the purple violet. 



FRANCIS QUARLES [1592-1644] 

AN ECSTASY 

E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks, 

That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams. 

And having ranged and search'd a thousand nooks. 
Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames, 
Where in a greater current they conjoin: 

So I my Best-beloved's am; so He is mine. 

E'en so we met; and after long pursuit. 
E'en so we joined; we both became entire; 

No need for either to renew a suit. 

For I was flax, and He was flames of fire: 
Our firm-united souls did more than twine; 

So I my Best-beloved's am; so He is mine. 

If all those glittering monarchs, that command 
The servile quarters of this earthly ball. 

Should tender in exchange their shares of land, 
I would not change my fortunes for them all: 
Their wealth is but a counter to my coin: 

The world's but theirs; but my Beloved's mine. 



GEORGE HERBERT 139 

GEORGE HERBERT [1593-1633] 

VIRTUE 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 

The bridal of the earth and sky! 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; 

For thou must die. 

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 

Thy root is ever in its grave. 
And thou must die. 

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie. 

My music shows ye have your closes, 
And all must die. 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul. 

Like seasoned timber, never gives; 

But though the whole world turn to coal, 
Then chiefly lives. 

THE COLLAR 

I STRUCK the board, and cry'd "No more! 

I will abroad. 
What? shall I ever sigh and pine? 
My lines and life are free; free as the road, 
Loose as the wind, as large as store.^ 

Shall I be still in suit? 
Have I no harvest but a thorn 
To let me blood, and not restore. 
What I have lost, with cordial fruit? 
Sure there was wine 

* abundance. 



140 BRITISH POEMS 

Before my sighs did dry it: there was corn 
Before my tears did drown it. 
Is the year only lost to me? 
Have I no bays to crown it? 
No flowers, no garlands gay? All blasted? 
All wasted? 
Not so, my heart! but there is fruit. 
And thou hast hands. 
Recover all thy sigh-blown age 
On double pleasures. Leave thy cold dispute 
Of what is fit and not. Forsake thy cage; 

Thy rope of sands 
Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee 
Good cable, to enforce and draw. 

And be thy law, 
While thou didst wink and wouldst not see. 
Away! Take heed! 
I will abroad. 
Call in thy death's-head there. Tie up thy fears. 
He that forbears 
To suit and serve his need 
Deserves his load." 
But as I raved, and grew more fierce and wild 
At every word, 
Methought I heard one calling, "Child." 
And I reply'd, "My Lord." 



THE QUIP 

The merry World did on a day 
With his train-bands and mates agree 
To meet together where I lay. 
And all in sport to jeer at me. 

First, Beauty crept into a rose; 
Which when I pluckt not, "Sir," said she, 
"Tell me, I pray, whose hands are those?" 
But Thou shalt answer. Lord, for me. 



GEORGE HERBERT 141 

Then Money came, and chinking still, 
"What tune is this, poor man?" said he: 
"I heard in Music you had skiU." 
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. 

Then came brave Glory puffing by 
In silks that whistled, who but he! 
He scarce allow'd me half an eye. 
But Thou shalt answer. Lord, for me. 

Then came quick Wit and Conversation, 
And he would needs a comfort be, 
And, to be short, make an oration. 
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. 

Yet when the hour of Thy design 
To answer these fine things shall come. 
Speak not at large: say, " I am Thine; " 
And then they have their answer home. 



THE PULLEY 

When God at first made man. 
Having a glass of Blessings standing by; 

"Let us," said he, "pour on him all we can: 
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, 

Contract into a span." 

So Strength first made a way; 
Then Beauty flow'd; then Wisdom, Honour, Pleasure. 

When almost all was out, God made a stay, 
Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure, 

Rest in the bottom lay. 

"For if I should," said he, 
"Bestow this jewel also on my creature, 

He would adore my gifts instead of me. 
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature; 

So both should losers be. 



142 BRITISH POEMS 

**Yet let him keep the rest, 
But keep them with repining restlessness; 

Let him be rich and weary, that at least, 
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness 

May toss him to my breast." 



DIVINE LOVE 

Thou art too hard for me in Love. 
There is no dealing with Thee in that art. 

That is Thy masterpiece, I see. 

When I contrive and plot to prove 
Something that may be conquest on my part, 

Thou still, O Lord, outstrippest me. 

Sometimes, whenas I wash, I say, — 
And shrodely^ as I think,^Lord, wash my soul, 

More spotted than my flesh can be! 

But then there comes into my way 
Thy ancient baptism, which when I was foul 

And knew it not, yet cleansed me. 

I took a time when Thou didst sleep. 
Great waves of trouble combating my breast: 

I thought it brave to praise Thee then. 

Yet then I found that Thou didst creep 
Into my heart with joy, giving more rest 

Than flesh did lend Thee back again. 

Let me but once the conquest have 
Upon the matter, 'twill Thy conquest prove. 

If Thou subdue mortality. 

Thou dost no more than doth the grave; 
Whereas if I o'ercome Thee and Thy love. 

Hell, death, and devil come short of me. 



shrewdly. 



JAMES SHIRLEY 143 



LOVE'S ANSWER 



Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back. 

Guilty of dust and sin. 
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack 

From my first entrance in, 
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, 

If I lack'd anything. 

"A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here:" 

Love said, "You shall be he." 
"I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear, 

I cannot look on Thee!" 
Love took my hand and smiling did reply, 

"Who made the eyes but I.'^" 

"Truth, Lord; but I have marr'd them: let my shame 

Go where it doth deserve." 
"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?" 

"My dear, then I will serve." 
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat." 

So I did sit and eat. 



JAMES SHIRLEY [1596-1666] 

THE GLORIES OF OUR BLOOD AND STATE 

The glories of our blood and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things; 
There is no armour against fate; 

Death lays his icy hand on kings: 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down. 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 



144 BRITISH POEMS j 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 

And plant fresh laurels where they kill: ■ 

But their strong nerves at last must yield; I 

They tame but one another still: i 

Early or late \ 

They stoop to fate, i 

And must give up their murmuring breath ^ 

When they, pale captives, creep to death. ] 

The garlands wither on your brow; ■ 

Then boast no more \^our mighty deeds; j 

Upon Death's purple altar now | 

See where the victor-victim bleeds: \ 

Your heads must come ' 

To the cold tomb; ; 

Only the actions of the just | 

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. i 

(From The Contention of Ajax and llLTSSEa.) j 



THOMAS CAREW [1598P-1639?] 

SONG 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows. 
When June is past, the fading rose. 
For in your beauty's orient deep 
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 

Ask me no more whither do stray 
The golden atoms of the day, 
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your hair. 

Ask me no more whither doth haste 
The nightingale when May is past, 
For in your sweet dividing throat 
She winters and keeps warm her note. 



THOMAS CAREW 145 

Ask me no more where those stars light . 
That downwards fall in dead of night, 
For in your eyes th^ey sit, and there 
Fixed become as in their sphere. 

Ask me no more if east or west 
The Phoenix builds her spicy nest. 
For unto you at last she flies. 
And in your fragrant bosom dies. 



INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED 

Know, Celia, since thou art so proud, 
'Twas I that gave thee thy renown. 

Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd 
Of common beauties lived unknown. 

Had not my verse exhaled thy name. 

And with it imp'd the wings of Fame. 

That killing power is none of thine; 

I gave it to thy voice and eyes; 
Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine; 

Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies; 
Then dart not from thy borrow'd sphere 
Lightning on him that fixt thee there. 

Tempt me with such affrights no more. 
Lest what I made I uncreate; 

Let fools thy mystic form adore, 
I know thee in thy mortal state. 

Wise poets, that wrapt Truth in tales. 

Knew her themselves through all her veils. 



146 BRITISH POEMS 



AN EPITAPH 



This little vault, this narrow room. 
Of love and beauty is the tomb; 
The dawning beam, that 'gan to clear 
Our clouded sky, lies darken'd here; 
For ever set to us: by death 
Sent to enflame the world beneath. 
'Twas but a bud, yet did contain 
More sweetness than shall spring again; 
A budding star, that might have grown 
Into a sun when it had blown. 
This hopeful beauty did create 
New life in love's declining state; 
But now his empire ends, and we 
From fire and wounding darts are free; 
His brand, his bow, let no man fear: 
The flames, the arrows, all lie here. 



WILLIAM HABINGTON [1605-1654] 

TO ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA 

Ye blushing virgins happy are 

In the chaste nunn'ry of her breasts. 

For he'd profane so chaste a fair, 

Who e'er should call them Cupid's nests. 

Transplanted thus how bright ye grow. 
How rich a perfume do ye yield! 
In some close garden cowslips so 
Are sweeter than i' th' open field. 

In those white cloisters live secure 
From the rude blasts of wanton breath. 
Each hour more innocent and pure. 
Till you shall wither into death. 



ABRAHAM COWLEY 147 

Then that which living gave you room 
Your glorious sepulchre shall be: 
There wants no marble for a tomb, 
Whose breast has marble been to me. 



SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT [1606-1668] 

SONG 

The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest, 
And climbing, shakes his dewy wings, 

He takes this window for the east. 
And to implore your light, he sings. 

Awake! Awake! the morn will never rise. 

Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. 

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star. 
The ploughman from the sun his season takes; 

But still the lover wonders what they are 
Who look for day before his mistress wakes. 

Awake! Awake! break through your veils of lawn! 

Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn! 

ABRAHAM COWLEY [1618-1667] 

DRINKING 

The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, 
And drinks, and gapes for drink again. 
The plants suck in the earth, and are 
W^ith constant drinking fresh and fair: 
The sea itself (which one would think 
Should have but little need of drink) 
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up. 
So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup: 
The busy sun (and one would guess 
By 's drunken fiery face no less) 



148 BRITISH POEMS 

Drinks up the sea, and when lie's done. 
The moon and stars drink up the sun: 
They drink and dance by their own Hght, 
They drink and revel all the night: 
Nothing in Nature 's sober found, 
But an eternal health goes round. 
—Fill up the bowl then! fill it high! 
Fill all the glasses there! for why 
Should every creature drink but I? 
Why, man of morals, tell me why? 

[From Anacreontiques.] 



THE WISH 

Well then! I now do plainly see 
This busy world and I shall ne'er agree. 
The very honey of all earthly joy 
Does of all meats the soonest cloy; 

And they, methinks, deserve my pity 
Who for it can endure the stings, 
The crowd and buzz and murmurings, i 

Of this great hive, the city. J 

Ah, yet, ere I descend to th' grave | 
May I a small house and large garden have; 

And a few friends, and many books; both true, 1 

Both wise, and both deKghtful too! 1 

And since love ne'er will from me flee, "i 

A Mistress moderately fair, I 

And good as guardian-angels are, j 

Only beloved and loving me. i 

O founts! O when in you shall I j 

Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, espy? ] 

O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made \ 

The happy tenant of your shade? ^ 
Here's the spring-head of pleasure's flood: 



ABRAHAM COWLEY 149 

[Here's wealthy Nature's treasury,] * 
Where all the riches lie that she 

Has coin'd and stamp'd for good. 

Pride and ambition here 

Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear; 

Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, 

And nought but echo flatter. 

The Gods, when they descend, hither 
From heaven did always choose their way: 
And therefore we may boldly say 

That 'tis the way too thither. 

How happy here should I 
And one dear She live, and embracing die! 
She who is all the world, and can exclude. 
In deserts, solitude. 

I should have then this only fear: 
Lest men, when they my pleasures see. 
Should hither throng to live like me. 

And so make a city here. 



ON THE DEATH OF MR. WILLIAM HERVEY 

It was a dismal and a fearful night, — 

Scarce could the morn drive on th' unwilling light. 

When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast. 

By something liker death possest. 
My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow. 

And on my soul hung the dull weight 

Of some intolerable fate. 
What bell was that.? Ah me! Too much I know! 

My sweet companion, and my gentle peer, 
Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here, 

This line, which modern editors print, does not appear in any of the earlier 
editions of Cowley. 



150 BRITISH POEMS ; 

Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan? j 

O thou hast left me all alone! i 

Thy soul and body, when death's agony ! 

Besieged around thy noble heart, ; 

Did not with more reluctance part / 

Than I, my dearest friend, do part from thee. 

Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say, , 

Have ye not seen us walking every day? j 

Was there a tree about which did not know I 

The love betwixt us two? • 

Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade, j 

Or your sad branches thicker join. 

And into darksome shades combine, 
Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid. 

Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er 

Submitted to inform a body here; 

High as the place 'twas shortly in heaven to have. 

But low and humble as his grave; 
So high that all the virtues there did come 

As to their chiefest seat 

Conspicuous, and great; 
So low that for me too it made a room. 

Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught, 
As if for him knowledge had rather sought; 
Nor did more learning ever crowded lie 

In such a short mortality. 
Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ. 

Still did the notions throng 

About his eloquent tongue; 
Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit. 

His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, 
Yet never did his God or friends forget. 
And when deep talk and wisdom came in view. 
Retired, and gave to them their due. 



SIR JOHN DENHAM 151 

For the rich help of books he always took, 

Though his own searching mind before 
Was so with notions written o'er, 

As if wise Nature had made that her book. 

With as much zeal, devotion, piety. 
He always lived, as other saints do die. 
Still with his soul severe account he kept. 

Weeping all debts out ere he slept. 
Then down in peace and innocence he lay, 

Like the sun's labourious light. 

Which still in water sets at night. 
Unsullied with his journey of the day. 

[From the poem of the same title.] 

SIR JOHN DENHAM [1615-1669] 
THE RIVER THAMES 

My eye, descending from the hill, surveys 

Where Thames amongst the wanton valleys strays; 

Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's sons. 

By his old sire, to his embraces runs, 

Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, 

Like mortal life to meet Eternity; 

Though with those streams he no resemblance hold. 

Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold, 

His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore, 

Search not his bottom, but survey his shore. 

O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing. 

And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring; 

Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay. 

Like mothers which their infants overlay. 

Nor, with a sudden and impetuous wave, 

Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave; 

No unexpected inundations spoil 

The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil. 

But godlike his unwearied bounty flows, 

First loves to do, then loves the good he does; 



152 BRITISH POEMS j 

Nor are his blessings to his hanks confined, \ 

But free and common as the sea or wind; 

When he to boast or to disperse liis stores, 

Full of the tributes of his grateful shores, ! 

Visits the world, and in his flying towers. 

Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours, 

Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants, 

Cities in deserts, woods in cities plants; 

So that to us no thing, no place is strange, ] 

While his fair bosom is the world's exchange. j 

O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream 

My great example, as it is my theme! 

Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull, I 

Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full. 

[From Cooper's Hill.] | 



EDMUND WALLER [1606-1687] 

TO PHYLLIS 

Phyllis! why should we delay 
Pleasures shorter than the day.^ 
Could we (which we never can) 
Stretch our lives beyond their span, 
Beauty like a shadow flies, 
And our youth before us dies. 
Or would youth and beauty stay. 
Love hath wings, and will away. 
Love hath swifter wings than Time; 
Change in love to heaven does climb. 
Gods, that never change their state, 
Varj^ oft their love and hate. 
Phyllis! to this truth we owe 
All the love betwixt us two. 
Let not you and I inquire 
What has been our past desire; 
On what shepherds you have smiled. 
Or what nymphs I have beguiled; 



EDMUND WALLER 153 

Leave it to the planets too, 
What we shall hereafter do; 
For the joys we now may prove. 
Take advice of present love. 

ON A GIRDLE 

That which her slender waist confined. 
Shall now my joyful temples bind; 
No monarch but would give his crown 
His arms might do what this has done. 

It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, 
The pale which held that lovely deer; 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love. 
Did all within this circle move. 

A narrow compass! and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair; 
Give me but what this ribband bound. 
Take all the rest the sun goes round. 

GO, LOVELY ROSE 

Go, lovely Rose! 

Tell her that wastes her time and me. 

That now she knows, 

When I resemble her to thee 

How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

Tell her that's young. 

And shuns to have her graces spied, 

That had'st thou sprung 

In deserts where no men abide. 

Thou must have uncommended died. 

Small is the worth 

Of beauty from the light retired; 



154 BRITISH POEMS 

Bid her come forth! 

Suffer herself to be desired, 

And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die: that she 

The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee; 

How small a part of time they share, 

They are so wondrous sweet and fair. 



SIR JOHN SUCKLING [1609-1642] 

A REFUSAL OF MARTYRDOM 

O FOR some honest lover's ghost. 
Some kind unbodied post 

Sent from the shades below! 

I strangely long to know 
Whether the nobler chaplets wear, 
Those that their mistress' scorn did bear 

Or those that were used kindly. 

For whatsoe'er they tell us here 
To make those sufferings dear, 
'Twill there, I fear, be found 
That to the being crown'd 
T' have loved alone will not suffice. 
Unless we also have been wise 
And have our loves enjoy'd. 

What posture can we think him in 
That, here unloved, again 
Departs, and 's thither gone 
Where each sits by his own.'^ 
Or how can that Elysium be 
Where I my mistress still must see 
Circled in other's arms? 



SIR JOHN SUCKLING 

For there the judges all are just, 
And Sophronisba must 

Be his whom she held dear. 
Not his who loved her here. 

The sweet Philoclea, since she died, 

Lies by her Pirocles his side, 
Not by Amphialus. 

Some bays, perchance, or myrtle bough 
For difference crowns the brow 

Of those kind souls that were 

The noble martyrs here: 
And if that be the only odds 
(As who can tell?), ye kinder gods. 

Give me the woman here! 



THE CONSTANT LOVER 

Out upon it! I have loved 
Three whole days together! 

And am like to love three more, 
If it prove fair weather. 

Time shall moult away his wings 

Ere he shall discover 
In the whole wide world again 

Such a constant lover. 

But the spite on't is, no praise 

Is due at all to me: 
Love with me had made no stays. 

Had it any been but she. 

Had it any been but she. 

And that very face, 
There had been at least ere this 

A dozen dozen in her place. 



156 BRITISH POEMS 



WHY SO PALE AND WAN 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 

Prythee, why so pale? 
Will, if looking well ean't move her. 

Looking ill prevail? 

Prythee, why so pale? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? 

Prythee, why so mute? 
Will, when speaking well can't win her, 

Saying nothing do't? 

Prythee, why so mute? 

Quit, quit, for shame! This will not move; 

This cannot take her. 
If of herself she will not love. 

Nothing can make her: 

The D— 1 take her! 

(From Aglauba.] 



WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT [1611-1643] 

ON A VIRTUOUS YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN THAT 
DIED SUDDENLY 

When the old flaming Prophet climb'd the sky, 
Who, at one glimpse, did vanish, and not die. 
He made more preface to a death than this: 
So far from sick, she did not breathe amiss. 
She, who to Heaven more heaven doth annex. 
Whose lowest thought was above all our sex, 
Accounted nothing death but t' be repriev'd. 
And died as free from sickness as she lived. 
Others are dragg'd away, or must be driven. 
She only saw her time and stept to Heaven, 
Where Seraphim view all her glories o'er 
As one return'd, that had been there before. 



RICHARD CRASHAW 157 

For while she did this lower world adorn, 
Her body seem'd rather assumed than born: 
So rarefied, advanced, so pure and whole, 
That body might have been another's soul; 
And equally a miracle it were, 
That she could die, or that she could live here. 



RICHARD CRASHAW [1613P-1649] 
THE FLAMING HEART 

UPON THE BOOK AND PICTURE OF THE 
SERAPHICAL SAINT TERESA 

Live in these conquering leaves: live all the same; 

And walk through all tongues one triumphant flame 

Live here, great Heart; and love, and die, and kill: 

And bleed, and wound, and yield, and conquer still. 

Let this immortal life where'er it comes 

Walk in a crowd of loves and martyrdoms. 

Let mystic deaths wait on't; and wise souls be 

The love-slain witnesses of this life of thee. 

O sweet Incendiary! show here thy art 

Upon this carcase of a hard cold heart; 

Let all thy scatter'd shafts of light, that play 

Among the leaves of thy large books of day. 

Combined against this breast at once break in, 

And take away from me myself and sin; 

This gracious robbery shall thy bounty be 

And my best fortunes such fair spoils of me. 

O thou undaunted Daughter of Desires! 

By all thy dower of lights and fires; 

By all the eagle in thee, all the dove; 

By all thy lives and deaths of love; 

By thy large draughts of intellectual day. 

And by thy thirsts of love more large than they; 

By all thy brim-filled bowls of fierce desire. 

By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire; 



158 BRITISH POEMS 

By the full kingdom of that final kiss 

That seized thy parting soul, and sealed thee His; 

By all the Heav'n thou hast in Him 

(Fair sister of the Seraphim!); 

By all of Him we have in thee; 

Leave nothing of myself in me. 

Let me so read thy life, that I 

Unto all life of mine may die! 

[From The Flaming Heart, etc.] 



RICHARD LOVELACE [1618-1658] 

TO LUCASTA ON GOING TO THE WARS 

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, 

That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind 

To war and arms I fly. 

True, a new mistress now I chase. 

The first foe in the field; 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you too shall adore — 
I could not love thee. Dear, so much. 

Loved I not honour more. 



TO LUCASTA ON GOING BEYOND SEAS ! 



If to be absent were to be 
Away from thee; 
Or that when I am gone 
You or I were alone; 
Then, my Lucasta, might I crave 
Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave. 



RICHARD LOVELACE 159 

But I'll not sigh one blast or gale 
To swell my sail, 
Or pay a tear to 'suage 
The foaming blue-god's rage; 
For whether he will let me pass 
Or no, I'm still as happy as I was. 

Though seas and land betwixt us both. 
Our faith and troth, 
Like separated souls, 
All time and space controls: 
Above the highest sphere we meet 
Unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet. 

So then we do anticipate 
Our after-fate. 
And are alive i' the skies. 
If thus our lips and eyes 
Can speak like spirits unconfined 
In Heaven, their earthv bodies left behind. 



TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON 

When love with unconfined wings 

Hovers within my gates. 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at the grates; 
When I lie tangled in her hair, 

And fetter'd to her eye. 
The birds that wanton in the air 

Know^ no such liberty. 

When flowing cups run swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses crown'd, 

Our hearts with loyal flames; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep, 

When healths and draughts go free- 



160 BRITISH POEMS 

Fishes that tipple in the deep 
Know no such Hberty. 

When, Hke committed Hnnets, I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty. 

And glories of my King; 
When I shall voice aloud, how good 

He is, how great should be. 
Enlarged winds that curl the flood 

Kjiow no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make. 

Nor iron bars a cage; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage; 
If I have freedom in my love — 

And in my soul am free. 
Angels alone, that soar above. 

Enjoy such liberty. 



HENRY VAUGHAN [1622-1695] 

THE RETREAT 

Happy those early days, when I 
Shined in my Angel-infancy! 
Before I understood this place 
Appointed for my second race. 
Or taught my soul to fancy ought 
But a white, celestial thought; 
When yet I had not walk'd above 
A mile or two, from my first love, 
And looking back — ^at that short space — 
Could see a glimpse of His bright face: 
When on some gilded cloud or flower 
My gazing soul would dwell an hour, 



HENRY VAUGHAN IGl 

And in those weaker glories spy 
Some shadows of eternity; 
Before I taught my tongue to wound 
My conscience with a sinful sound, 
Or had the black art to dispense, 
A sev'ral sin to ev'ry sense. 
But felt through all this fleshly dress 
Bright shoots of everlastingness. 
O how I long to travel back. 
And tread again that ancient track! 
That I might once more reach that plain. 
Where first I left my glorious train; 
From whence th' enlightened spirit sees 
That shady City of Palm Trees. 
But ah! my soul with too much stay 
Is drunk, and staggers in the way! 
Some men a forward motion love. 
But I by backward steps will move; 
And when this dust falls to the urn, 
In that state I came, return. 



DEPARTED FRIENDS 

They are all gone into the world of Light, 

And I alone sit ling'ring here; 
Their very memory is fair and bright. 

And my sad thoughts doth clear. 

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, 
Like stars upon some gloomy grove. 

Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest. 
After the sun's remove. 

I see them walking in an air of glory. 
Whose light doth trample on my days: 

My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, 
Mere glimmerings and decays. 



1G2 BRITISH POEMS 

O holy Hope, and high Humility, 

High as the heavens above! 
These are your walks, and you have show'd them me. 

To kindle my cold love. 

Dear, beauteous Death, the jewel of the just. 

Shining nowhere but in the dark; 
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust. 

Could man outlook that mark! 

He that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may know 

At first sight if the bird be flown; 
But what fair well or grove he sings in now. 

That is to him unknown. 

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams 
Call to the soul when man doth sleep, 

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, 
And into glory peep. 

If a star were confined into a tomb. 

The captive flames must needs burn there; 

But when the hand that lock'd her up, gives room. 
She'll shine through all the sphere. 

O Father of eternal life, and all 

Created glories under Thee! 
Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall 

Into true liberty. 

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill 

My perspective still as they pass; 
Or else remove me hence unto that hill. 

Where I shall need no glass. 



HENRY VAUGHAN 163 



THE WORLD 



I SAW Eternity the other night. 

Like a great ring of pure and endless light, 

All calm, as it was bright; 
And round beneath it, Time, in hours, days, years, 

Driv'n by the spheres 
Like a vast shadow moved; in which the world 

And all her train were hurled. 

The doting Lover in his quaintest strain 

Did there complain; 
Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights. 

Wit's sour delights. 
With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure. 

Yet his dear treasure. 
All scatter'd la3% while he his eyes did pour 

Upon a flower. 

The darksome Statesman, hung with weights and woe. 
Like a thick midnight-fog, moved there so slow. 

He did not stay, nor go; 
Condemning thoughts — like sad eclipses — scowl 

Upon his soul. 
And clouds of crying witnesses without 

Pursued him with one shout. 
Yet digg'd the mole, and lest his ways be found, 

Work'd under ground. 
Where he did clutch his prey; but one did see 

That policy; 
Churches and altars fed him; perjuries 

Were gnats and flies; 
It rain'd about him blood and tears, but he 

Drank them as free. 

The fearful Miser on a heap of rust 
Sate pining all his life there, did scarce trust 
His own hands with the dust, 



1G4 BRITISH POEMS 

Yet would not place one piece alone, but lives 

In fear of thieves. 
Thousands there were as frantic as himself, 

And hugg'd each one his pelf; 
The downright Epicure placed heav'n in sense 

And scorn'd pretence; 
While others, slipt into a wide excess. 

Said little less; 
The weaker sort, slight trivial wares enslave. 

Who think them brave; 
And poor despised Truth sate counting by 

Their victory. 

Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing. 
And sing, and weep, soar'd up into the ring; 

But most would use no wing. 
O fools — said I — thus to prefer dark night 

Before true light! 
To live in grots, and caves, and hate the day 

Because it shews the way. 
The way, which from this dead and dark abode 

Leads up to God; 
A way where you might tread the sun, and be 

More bright than he! 
But as I did their madness so discuss 

One whisper'd thus, 
"This ring the Bridegroom did for none provide, 

But for His bride." 



JOHN MILTON 165 

JOHN MILTON [1608-1674] 

L'ALLEGRO 

Hence, loathed Melancholy, 

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, 
In Stygian cave forlorn 

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! 
Find out some uncouth cell 

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings 
And the night-raven sings; 

There under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks 
As ragged as thy locks. 

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 

But come, thou Goddess fair and free. 
In heaven ycleped Euphrosyne, 
And by men, heart-easing Mirth, 
Whom lovely Venus at a birth 
With two sister Graces more 
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore; 
Or whether (as some sager sing) 
The frolic wind that breathes the spring. 
Zephyr, with Aurora playing. 
As he met her once a-Maying, 
There on beds of violets blue 
And fresh-blown roses washt in dew 
Filled her with thee, a daughter fair. 
So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 

Haste thee. Nymph, and bring with thee 
Jest, and youthful jollity, 
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, 
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles 
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, 
And love to live in dimple sleek; 
Sport that wrinkled Care derides, 
And Laughter holding both his sides. 
Come, and trip it as ye go 
On the light fantastic toe; 



166 BRITISH POEMS 

And in thy right hand lead with thee 
The mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty; 
And if I give thee honour due 
Mirth, admit me of thy crew, 
To Hve with her, and Hve with thee 
In unreproved pleasures free; 
To hear the lark begin his flight 
And singing startle the dull night 
From his watch-tower in the skies, 
Till the dappled Dawn doth rise; 
Then to come, in spite of sorrow. 
And at my window bid good-morrow 
Through the sweetbriar, or the vine. 
Or the twisted eglantine: 
While the cock with lively din 
Scatters the rear of Darkness thin, 
And to the stack, or the barn-door. 
Stoutly struts his dames before: 
Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn 
Cheerly rouse the slumbring Morn, 
From the side of some hoar hill. 
Through the high wood echoing shrill: 
Sometime walking, not unseen. 
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green. 
Right against the eastern gate 
Where the great Sun begins his state 
Robed in flames and amber light. 
The clouds in thousand liveries dight; 
While the ploughman, near at hand, 
Whistles o'er the furrowed land. 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe. 
And the mower whets his scythe, 
And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures 
Whilst the lantskip ^ round it measures: 
Russet lawns, ^ and fallows gray, 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray; 

1 landscape, 2 pastures 



JOHN MILTON 167 

Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The labouring clouds do often rest; 
Meadows trim with daisies pied, 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide; 
Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosomed high in tufted trees, 
Where perhaps some Beauty lies. 
The Cj^nosure of neighbouring eyes. 
Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes 
From betwixt two aged oaks, 
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met 
Are at their savoury dinner set 
Of herbs and other country messes. 
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; 
And then in haste her bower she leaves 
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; 
Or, if the earlier season lead, 
To the tanned haycock in the mead. 

Sometimes with secure delight 
The upland hamlets will invite, 
W^hen the merry bells ring round. 
And the jocund rebecks ^ sound 
To many a youth and many a maid. 
Dancing in the chequered shade; 
And young and old come forth to play 
On a sun-shine holyday. 
Till the live-long day-light fail: 
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale. 
With stories told of many a feat. 
How fairy Mab the junkets eat: — 
She was pincht and pulled, she said; 
And he, by Friar's lantern led. 
Tells how the drudging goblin sweat 
To earn his cream-bowl duly set, 
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn. 
His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn 
That ten day-labourers could not end; 
Then lies him down, the lubbar fend, 

3 fiddles. 



1G8 BRITISH POEMS 

And stretcht out all the chimney's length, 
Basks at the fire his hairy strength, 
And crop-full out of doors he flings, 
Ere the first cock his matin rings. 

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep. 
By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. 

Towered cities please us then, 
And the busy hum of men, 
Where throngs of knights and barons bold, 
In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold. 
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
Rain influence, and judge the prize 
Of wit or arms, while both contend 
To win her grace, whom all commend. 
There let Hj^men oft appear 
In saffron robe, with taper clear, 
And pomp, and feast, and revelry. 
With mask and antique pageantry; 
Such sights as youthful poets dream 
On summer eves by haunted stream. 
Then to the well-trod stage anon. 
If Jonson's learned sock be on. 
Or sweetest Shakspere, Fancy's child. 
Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever against eating cares, 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs. 
Married to immortal verse. 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce. 
In notes with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out. 
With wanton heed and giddy cunning. 
The melting voice through mazes running, 
Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony; 
That Orpheus' self may heave his head 
From golden slumber on a bed 
Of heapt Elysian flowers, and hear 
Such strains as would have won the ear 



JOHN MILTON 169 

Of Pluto to have quite set free 
His half-regained Eurydice. 

These delights if thou canst give. 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 



IL PENSEROSO 

Hence, vain deluding Joys, 

The brood of Folly without father bred! 
How little you bestead, 

Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys! 
Dwell in some idle brain, 

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess. 
As thick and numberless 

As the gay. motes that people the sunbeams, 
Or likest hovering dreams, 

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 

But hail, thou Goddess sage and holy! 
Hail, divinest Melancholy! 
Whose saintly visage is too bright 
To hit the sense of human sight. 
And therefore to our weaker view 
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue; 
Black, but such as in esteem 
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem. 
Or that starred Ethiop Queen that strove 
To set her beauty's praise above 
The Sea-Nymphs, and their powers offended. 
Yet thou art higher far descended: 
Thee bright-haired Vesta, long of yore 
To solitary Saturn bore; 
His daughter she; in Saturn's reign 
Such mixture was not held a stain. 
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 
He met her, and in secret shades 
Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 
While yet there was no fear of Jove. 



170 BRITISH POEMS 

Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, 
Sober, steadfast, and demure, j 

All in a robe of darkest grain, j 

Flowing with majestic train, I 

And sable stole of cypress lawn 
Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
Come; but keep thy wonted state. 
With even step, and musing gait, 

And looks commercing with the skies, ■ 

Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: ; 

There, held in holy passion still, [ 

Forget thyself to marble, till i 

With a sad leaden downward cast j 

Thou fix them on the earth as fast. I 

And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, j 

Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, 1 

And hears the Muses in a ring 

Aye round about Jove's altar sing; | 

And add to these retired Leisure, 

That in trim gardens takes his pleasure; , 

But, first and chiefest, with thee bring i 

Him that yon soars on golden wing, j 

Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, I 

The Cherub Contemplation; 

And the mute Silence hist along, j 

'Less Philomel will deign a song, j 

In her sweetest saddest plight, ! 

Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, ' 

While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke 
Gently o'er th' accustomed oak. 

— Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, ! 

Most musical, most melancholy! ] 

Thee, Chauntress, oft the woods among 
I woo, to hear thy even-song; 
And, missing thee, I walk unseen 
On the dry smooth-shaven green. 
To behold the wandering Moon, 
Riding near her highest noon. 
Like one that had been led astray 
Through the heaven's wide pathless way. 



JOHN MILTON 171 

And oft, as if her bead she bowed, 
Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 

Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 
I hear the far-off curfew sound 
Over some wide-watered shore. 
Swinging slow with sullen roar; 
Or, if the air will not permit. 
Some still removed place will fit. 
Where glowing embers through the room 
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, 
Far from all resort of mirth. 
Save the cricket on the hearth. 
Or the Bellman's drowsy charm 
To bless the doors from nightly harm. 

Or let my lamp, at midnight hour. 
Be seen in some high lonely tower. 
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear, 
With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 
The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
What words or what vast regions hold 
Th' immortal mind that hath forsook 
Her mansion in this fleshly nook; 
And of those Daemons that are found 
In fire, air, flood, or under ground. 
Whose power hath a true consent 
With planet or with element. 
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
In sceptred pall come sweeping by, 
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, 
Or the tale of Troy divine. 
Or what (though rare) of later age 
Ennobled hath the buskined stage. 

But, O sad Virgin! that thy power 
Might raise Musaeus from his bower; 
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
Such notes as, warbled to the string. 
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek. 
And made hell grant what Love did seek; 
Or call up him that left half-told 
The story of Cambuscan bold. 



172 BRITISH POEMS 

Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
And who had Canace to wife 
That owned the virtuous ring and glass, 
And of the wondrous horse of brass 
On which the Tartar King did ride; 
And if aught else great Bards beside 
In sage and solemn tunes have sung 
Of turneys, and of trophies hung. 
Of forests, and enchantments drear, 
Where more is meant than meets the ear. 

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, 
Till civil-suited Morn appear. 
Not tricked and frounced, as she was wont 
With the Attic Boy to hunt, 
But kerchieft in a comely cloud, 
While rocking winds are piping loud. 
Or ushered with a shower still. 
When the gust hath blown his fill. 
Ending on the rustling leaves. 
With minute drops from off the eaves. 
And, when the sun begins to fling ; 

His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring • 

To arched walks of twilight groves, . 

And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, i 

Of pine, or monumental oak, ' 

Where the rude axe with heaved stroke j 

Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt. 
Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. - 

There, in close covert, by some brook. 
Where no profaner eye may look, j 

Hide me from Day's garish eye, 1 

While the bee with honeyed thigh. 
That at her flowery work doth sing, 

And the waters murmuring, ■ 

With such consort as they keep. 
Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep. 
And let some strange mysterious dream. 
Wave at his wings in airy stream. 



JOHN MILTON 173 

Of lively portraiture displayed, 

Softly on my eyelids laid. 

And as I wake, sweet music breathe 

Above, about, or underneath. 

Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, 

Or th' unseen Genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 
To walk the studious cloister's pale. 
And love the high-embowed roof. 
With antic pillars massy proof, 
And storied windows richly dight. 
Casting a dim religious light. 
There let the pealing organ blow. 
To the full- voiced Quire below, 
In service high and anthems clear, 
As may with sweetness, through mine ear. 
Dissolve me into ecstasies. 
And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. 

And may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage. 
The hairy gown and mossy cell. 
Where I may sit and rightly spell. 
Of every star that Heaven doth shew. 
And every herb that sips the dew; 
Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures. Melancholy, give. 
And I with thee will choose to live. 



LYCIDAS 

ELEGY ON A FRIEND DROWNED IN THE 
IRISH CHANNEL 1637 

Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more 
Ye Myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude. 
And with forced fingers rude 



174 BRITISH POEMS 

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 
Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear 
Compels me to disturb your season due; 
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime. 
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew 
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
He must not float upon his watery bier 
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, 
Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well 
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; 
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 
Hence with denial vain and coy excuse: 
So may some gentle Muse 
With lucky words favour my destined urn. 
And as he passes, turn 

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud! 
For we were nursed upon the self-same hill. 
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill: 

Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 
Under the opening ej'elids of the Morn, 
W^e drove a-field, and both together heard 
What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn, 
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, 
Oft till the star that rose at evening bright 
Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel 
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute; 
Tempered to the oaten flute 

Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel 
From the glad sound would not be absent long; 
And old Damcetas loved to hear our song. 

But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone. 
Now thou art gone and never must return! 
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves 
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'er-grown. 
And all their echoes, mourn. 
The willows, and the hazel copses green. 
Shall now no more be seen 



JOHN MILTON 175 

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 

As killing as the canker to the rose, 

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze. 

Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear 

When first the white-thorn blows; 

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? 
For neither were ye playing on the steep 
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, 
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high. 
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. 
Ay me! I fondly dream 

"Had ye been there" . . . For what could that have done.^ 
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore. 
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son. 
Whom universal nature did lament. 
When, by the rout that made the hideous roar. 
His gory visage down the stream was sent, 
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? 

Alas! what boots it with uncessant care 
To tend the homely, slighted. Shepherd's trade 
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? 
Weie it not better done, as others use. 
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 
Or with the tangles of Neisra's hair? 
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 
(That last infirmity of noble mind) 
To scorn delights, and live labourious days; 
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears 
And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise," 
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears: 
"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil. 
Nor in the glistering foil 

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies, 
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes 
And perfect witness of all- judging Jove; 



176 BRITISH POEMS 

As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 

Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." 

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood, 
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds. 
That strain I heard was of a higher mood. 
But now my oat proceeds. 
And listens to the Herald of the Sea 
That came in Neptune's plea. 
He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds. 
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain .f^ 
And questioned every gust of rugged wings 
That blows from off each beaked promontory. 
They knew not of his story; 
And sage Hippotades their answer brings. 
That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed: 
The air was calm, and on the level brine 
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. 
It was that fatal and perfidious bark. 
Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses dark. 
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 

Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow. 
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge. 
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 
Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. 
"Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge!" 
Last came, and last did go. 
The Pilot of the Galilean lake; 
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain) 
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake: — 
"How well could I have spared for thee, young swain. 
Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake 
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold! 
Of other care they little reck'ning make 
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast. 
And shove away the worthy bidden guest. 
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold 
A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least 
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! 



JOHN MILTON 177 

What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; 

And, when they hst, their lean and flashy songs 

Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; 

The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 

But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw 

Rot inwardl}^ and foul contagion spread; 

Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw 

Daily devours apace, and nothing said. 

— But that two-handed engine at the door 

Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." 

Return, Alpheus; the dread voice is past 
That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, 
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. 
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks. 
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks, 
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes. 
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, 
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies. 
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine. 
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet. 
The glowing violet. 

The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, 
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head. 
And every flower that sad embroidery wears. 
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed. 
And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, 
To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies. 
For so, to interpose a little ease. 
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. 
Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled; 
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide 
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; 
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, 
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old. 



178 BRITISH POEMS 

Where the great Vision of the guarded mount 
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold. 
Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth: 
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth! 

Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more. 
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, 
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. 
So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed. 
And yet anon repairs his drooping head 
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: 
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high 
Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves; 
W^here, other groves and other streams along. 
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves. 
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, 
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 
There entertain him all the Saints above 
In solemn troops, and sweet societies. 
That sing, and singing in their glory move. 
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
Now, liycidas, the shepherds weep no more; 
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore 
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills. 
While the still morn went out with sandals grey: 
He touched the tender stops of various quills, 
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: 
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills. 
And now was dropt into the western bay. 
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue: 
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. 



JOHN MILTON 179 



ON THE LATE INIASSACRE IN PIEDMONT 

Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughtered Saints, whose bones 
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; 
Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old 
When all our fathers worshiped stocks and stones. 
Forget not: in Thy book record their groans 
Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 
Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled 
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans 
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 
To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow 
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway 
The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow 
A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way. 
Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 



ON HIS BLINDNESS 

When I consider how my light is spent, 

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide. 

And that one Talent which is death to hide 

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present 

My true account, lest He returning chide, 

"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied.'^" 

I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent 

That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need 

Either man's work, or His own gifts. Who best 

Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state 

Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed 

And post o'er land and ocean without rest. 

They also serve who only stand and wait." 



180 BRITISH POEMS 



ON HIS DECEASED WIFE 



Methougiit I saw my late espoused saint 

Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave, 

Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, 

Rescued from Death by force, though pale and faint. 

Mine, as whom washed from spot of childbed taint 

Purification in the Old Law did save, 

And such as yet once more I trust to have 

Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint, 

Came vested all in white, pure as her mind. 

Her face was veiled; yet to my fancied sight 

Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined 

So clear as in no face with more delight. 

But, oh! as to embrace me she inclined, 

I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night. 



THE FALLEN HOSTS IN HELL 

All in a moment through the gloom were seen 
Ten thousand banners rise into the air. 
AVith orient colours waving: with them rose 
A forest huge of spears; and thronging helms 
Appeared, and serried shields in thick array 
Of depth immeasurable. Anon they move 
In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood 
Of flutes and soft recorders — such as raised 
To height of noblest temper heroes, old 
Arming to battle — and instead of rage 
Deliberate valour breathed, firm, and unmoved 
With dread of death to flight or foul retreat; 
Nor wanting power to mitigate and 'suage 
With solemn touches troubled thoughts, and chase 
Anguish and doubt and fear and sorrow and pain 
From mortal or immortal minds. Thus they, 
Breathing united force, with fixed thought. 
Moved on in silence to soft pipes that charmed 



JOHN MILTON 181 

Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil; and now 

Advanced in view they stand — a horrid front 

Of dreadful length and dazzling arms, in guise 

Of warriors old with ordered spear and shield. 

Awaiting what command their mighty Chief 

Had to impose. He through the armed files 

Darts his experienced eye, and soon traverse 

The whole battalion views — their order due. 

Their visages and stature as of gods: 

Their number last he sums. And now his heart 

Distends with pride, and, hardening in his strength. 

Glories: for never since created man 

Met such embodied force as, named with these, 

Could merit more than that small infantry 

Warred on by cranes — though all the giant brood 

Of Phlegra with the heroic race were joined 

That fought at Thebes and Ilium, on each side 

Mixed with auxiliar gods; and what resounds 

In fable or romance of Uther's son 

Begirt with British and Armoric knights; 

And all who since, baptized or infidel. 

Jousted in Aspramont, or Montalban, 

Damasco, or Marocco, or Trebizond, 

Or whom Biserta sent from Afric shore, 

When Charlemain with all his peerage fell 

By Fontarabbia. Thus far these beyond 

Compare of mortal prowess, yet observed 

Their dread Commander. He, above the rest 

In shape and gesture proudly eminent. 

Stood like a tower. His form had yet not lost 

All its original brightness, nor appeared 

Less than Archangel ruined, and th' excess 

Of glory obscured: as when the sun new-risen 

Looks through the horizontal misty air 

Shorn of his beams, or, from behind the moon. 

In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 

On half the nations, and with fear of change 

Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so, yet shon 

Above them all th' Archangel: but his face 



182 BRITISH POEMS 

Deep scars of thunder had entrenched, and care 
Sat on his faded cheek; hut under brows 
Of dauntless courage, and considerate pride 
Waiting revenge. Cruel his eye, but cast 
Signs of remorse and passion, to behold 
The fellows of his crime, the followers rather 
(Far other once beheld in bliss), condemned 
For ever now to have their lot in pain — 
Millions of Spirits for his fault amerced 
Of Heaven, and from eternal splendours flung 
For his revolt — yet faithful how they stood, 
Their glory withered; as when heaven's fire 
Hath scathed the forest oaks, or mountain pines. 
With singed top their stately growth, though bare. 
Stands on the blasted heath. He now prepared 
To speak; whereat their doubled ranks they bend 
From wing to wing, and half enclose him round 
With all his peers. Attention held them mute. 
Thrice he essayed, and tlu-ice, in spite of scorn. 
Tears such as angels weep, burst forth; at last 
Words, interwove with sighs, found out their way. 

"O myriads of immortal Spirits! O Powers 
Matchless, but with the Almighty! — and that strife 
AVas not inglorious, though th' event was dire, 
As this place testifies, and this dire change. 
Hateful to utter. But what power of mind. 
Foreseeing or presaging, from the depth 
Of knowledge, past or present, could have feared 
How such united force of gods, how such 
As stood like these, could ever know repulse.'^ 
For who can yet believe, though after loss, 
That all these puissant legions, whose exile 
Hath emptied Heaven, shall fail to reascend 
Self-raised, and re-possess their native seat.'^ 
For me, be witness all the host of Heaven, 
If counsels different, or dangers shunned 
By me, have lost our hopes. But he who reigns 
Monarch in Heaven till then as one secure 
Sat on his throne, upheld by old repute. 



JOHN MILTON 183 

Consent or custom, and his regal state 

Put forth at full: but still his strength concealed 

Which tempted our attempt, and wrought our fall. 

Henceforth his might we know, and know our own, 

So as not either to provoke, or dread 

New war provoked: our better part remains 

To work in close design, by fraud or guile, 

What force effected not; that he no less 

At length from us may find, who overcomes 

By force, hath overcome but half his foe. 

Space may produce new Worlds; whereof so rife 

There went a fame in Heaven that He ere long 

Intended to create, and therein plant 

A generation, whom his choice regard 

Should favour equal to the Sons of Heaven. 

Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps 

Our first eruption — thither, or elsewhere; 

For this infernal pit shall never hold 

Celestial Spirits in bondage, nor th' Abyss 

Long under darkness cover. But these thoughts 

Full counsel must mature. Peace is despaired; 

For who can think submission.^ W^ar, then, war 

Open or understood, must be resolved." 

He spake; and, to confirm his words, outflew 
Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs 
Of mighty Cherubim; the sudden blaze 
Far round illumined Hell. Highly they raged 
Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms 
Clashed on their sounding shields the din of war, 
Hurling defiance toward the vault of Heaven. 

There stood a hill not far, whose grisly top 
Belched fire and rolling smoke; the rest entire 
Shon with a glossy scurf, undoubted sign 
That in his womb was hid metallic ore. 
The work of sulphur. Thither, winged with speed, 
A numerous brigade hastened: as when bands 
Of pioneers, with spade and pickaxe armed, 
Forerun the royal camp, to trench a field. 
Or cast a rampart. Mammon led them on — 



184 BRITISH POEMS 

Mammon, the least erected Spirit that fell 

From Heaven; for even in Heaven his looks and thoughts 

Were always downward bent, admiring more 

The riches of Heaven's pavement, trodden gold. 

Than aught, divine or holy, else enjoyed 

In vision beatific. (By him first 

Men also, and by his suggestion taught. 

Ransacked the Centre, and with impious hands 

Rifled the bowels of their mother Earth 

For treasures, better hid.) Soon had his crew 

Opened into the hill a spacious wound. 

And digged out ribs of gold. Let none admire 

That riches grow in Hell; that soil may best 

Deserve the precious bane. And here let those 

Who boast in mortal things, and wondering tell 

Of Babel, and the works of Memphian kings. 

Learn how their greatest monuments of fame. 

And strength and art, are easily outdone 

By Spirits reprobate, and in an hour 

What in an age, they, with incessant toil 

And hands innumerable, scarce perform. 

Nigh on the plain, in many cells prepared, 

That underneath had veins of liquid fire 

Sluiced from the lake, a second multitude 

With wondrous art founded the massy ore. 

Severing each kind, and scummed the bullion-dross. 

A third as soon had formed within the ground 

A various mold, and from the boiling cells. 

By strange conveyance, filled each hollow nook. 

As in an organ, from one blast of wind. 

To many a row of pipes the sound-board breathes. 

Anon, out of the earth a fabric huge 

Rose like an exhalation, with the sound 

Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet — 

Built like a temple, where pilasters round 

Were set, and Doric pillars overlaid 

With golden architrave; nor did there want 

Cornice or frieze, with bossy scupltures graven 

The roof was fretted gold. Not Babilon, 



JOHN MILTON 185 

Nor great Alcairo, such magnificence 

Equaled in all their glories, to enshrine 

Belus or Serapis their gods, or seat 

Their kings, when Egypt with Assyria strove 

In wealth and luxury. Th' ascending pile 

Stood fixed her stately highth: and straight the doors, 

Opening their brazen folds, discover, wide 

Within, her ample spaces, o'er the smooth 

And level pavement; from the arched roof, 

Pendent by subtle magic, many a row 

Of starry lamps and blazing cressets, fed 

With naphtha and asphaltus, j'ielded light 

As from a sky. The hasty multitude 

Admiring entered; and the work some praise, 

And some the Architect. His hand was known 

In Heaven by many a towered structure high 

Where sceptred Angels held their residence. 

And sat as Princes, whom the supreme King 

Exalted to such power, and gave to rule, 

Each in his hierarchy, the Orders bright. 

Nor was his name unheard or unadored 

In ancient Greece; and in Ausonian land 

Men called him Mulciber; and how he fell 

From Heaven they fabled, thrown by angry Jove 

Sheer o'er the crystal battlements: from morn 

To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, 

A summer's day; and with the setting sun 

Dropped from the zenith, like a falling star. 

On Lemnos, th' iEgean isle. Thus they relate. 

Erring; for he with this rebeUious rout 

Fell long before; nor aught availed him now 

To have built in Heaven high towers; nor did he 'scape 

By all his engines, but was headlong sent 

With his industrious crew to build in Hell. 

[From Book I, Paradise Lost.] 



186 BRITISH POEMS 

ANDREW MARVELL [1621-1678] : 

SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA 

Where the remote Bermudas ride j 
In th' ocean's bosom unespyVl, 

From a small boat that row'd along ' 
The list'ning winds received this song. 

"What should we do but sing His praise i 
That led us through the wat'ry maze 
Unto an isle so long unknown, 

And yet far kinder than our own? ; 

Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks, ; 

That lift the deep upon their backs; \ 

He lands us on a grassy stage, • 

Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage: ' 
He gave us this eternal Spring 

Which here enamels everything, -: 

And sends the fowls to us in care ! 
On daily visits through the air. 

He hangs in shades the orange bright I 

Like golden lamps in a green night, j 

And does in the pomegranates close * 

Jewels more rich than Ormus shows: ] 

He makes the figs our mouths to meet I 

And throws the melons at our feet; '\ 

But apples, plants of such a price, | 

No tree could ever bear them twice. • 

With cedars chosen by His hand ■ 
From Lebanon He stores the land; 
And makes the hollow seas that roar 
Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 

He cast (of which we rather boast) ; 

The Gospel's pearl upon our coast; ^ 

And in these rocks for us did frame I'i 



A temple where to sound His name. 
Oh! let our voice His praise exalt 
Till it arrive at Heaven's vault. 



ANDREW MARVELL 187 

Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may 

Echo beyond the Mexique bay!" 

— Thus sung they in the English boat 

A holy and a cheerful note: 

And all the way, to guide their chime. 

With falling oars they kept the time. 



THE GARDEN 

How vainly men themselves amaze 
To win the palm, the oak, or bays. 
And their uncessant labours see 
Crown'd from some single herb or tree. 
Whose short and narrow-verged shade 
Does prudently their toils upbraid; 
While all the flowers and trees do close 
To weave the garlands of repose. 

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here. 
And Innocence thy sister dear! 
Mistaken long, I sought you then 
In busy companies of men: 
Your sacred plants, if here below. 
Only among the plants will grow: 
Society is all but rude 
To this delicious solitude. 

No white nor red was ever seen 

So am'rous as this lovely green. 

Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, 

Cut in these trees their mistress' name; 

Little, alas, they know or heed 

How far these beauties hers exceed! 

Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound. 

No name shall but your own be found. 

When we have run our passions' heat 
Love hither makes his best retreat: 



188 BRITISH POEMS 

The gods, who mortal beauty chase. 
Still in a tree did end their race; 
Apollo hunted Daphne so 
Only that she might laurel grow; 
And Pan did after Syrinx speed 
Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 

What wondrous life is this I lead! 
Ripe apples drop about my head; 
The luscious clusters of the vine 
Upon my mouth do crush their wine; 
The nectarine and curious peach 
Into my hands themselves do reach; 
Stumbling on melons, as I pass. 
Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less. 

Withdraws into its happiness; 

The mind, that ocean where each kind 

Does straight its own resemblance find; 

Yet it creates, transcending these, 

Far other worlds, and other seas; 

Annihilating all that's made 

To a green thought in a green shade. 

Here at the fountain's sliding foot 
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root. 
Casting the body's vest aside 
M.y soul into the boughs does glide; 
There, like a bird, it sits and sings. 
Then whets and claps its silver wings, 
And, till prepared for longer flight. 
Waves in its plumes the various light. 

Such was that happy Garden-state 
While man there walk'd without a mate: 
After a place so pure and sweet. 
What other help could yet be meet! 



SIR CHARLES SEDLEY 189 

But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 
To wander solitary there: 
Two paradises 'twere in one 
To live in Paradise alone. 

How well the skilful gardner drew 
Of flowers and herbs this dial new! 
Where, from above, the milder sun 
Does through a fragrant zodiac run: 
And, as it works, th' industrious bee 
Computes its time as well as we. 
How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers! 



SIR CHARLES SEDLEY [1639.^-1701] 

TO CELIA 

Not, Celia, that I juster am 

Or better than the rest; 
For I would change each hour, like them. 

Were not my heart at rest. 

But I am tied to very thee 

By every thought I have; 
Thy face I only care to see. 

Thy heart I only crave. 

All that in woman is adored 

In thy dear self I find — 
For the whole sex can but afford 

The handsome and the kind. 

Why then should I seek further store. 

And still make love anew.'^ 
When change itself can give no more, 

'Tis easy to be true» 



190 BRITISH POEMS 

JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER 

[1647-1680.] 

CONSTANCY 

I CANNOT change, as others do. 

Though you unjustly scorn, 
Since that poor swain that sighs for you. 

For you alone was born; 
No, Phillis, no, your heart to move 

A surer way I'll try. 
And to revenge my slighted love. 

Will still love on. and die. 

When killed with grief Amintas lies. 

And you to mind shall call 
The sighs that now unpitied rise. 

The tears that vainly fall, 
That welcome hour that ends his smart. 

Will then begin your pain, 
For such a faithful tender heart 

Can never break in vain. 



ON CHARLES II 

Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King, 
Whose word no man relies on. 

Who never said a foolish thing. 
Nor ever did a wise one. 



JOHN DRYDEN 191 

JOHN DRYDEN [1631-1700] 
A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687 

From harmony, from heavenly harmony 
This universal frame began: 
When Nature underneath a heap 

Of jarring atoms lay 
And could not heave her head, 
The tuneful voice was heard from high, 

"Arise, ye more than dead! " 
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry. 
In order to their stations leap, 

And Music's power obey. 
From harmony, from heavenly harmony 
This universal frame began: 
From harmony to harmony 
Thro' all the compass of the notes it ran. 
The diapason closing full in Man. 

What passion cannot Music raise and quell! 
When Jubal struck the chorded shell 
His listening brethren stood around. 
And, wondering, on their faces fell 
To worship that celestial sound. 
Less than a god they thought there could not dwell 
Within the hollow of that shell 
That spoke so sweetly and so well. 
WTiat passion cannot Music raise and quell! 

The trumpet's loud clangor 

Excites us to arms, 
With shrill notes of anger 

And mortal alarms. 
The double double double beat 

Of the thundering drum 

Cries: "Hark! the foes come; 
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!'* 



192 BRITISH POEMS 

The soft complaining flute 

In dying notes discovers 

The woes of hopeless lovers , 
Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. 

Sharp violins proclaim 
Their jealous pangs and desperation. 
Fury, frantic indignation. 
Depth of pains, and height of passion 

For the fair disdainful dame. 

But oh! what art can teach. 
What human voice can reach 

The sacred organ's praise? 
Notes inspiring holy love, 
Notes that wing their heavenly ways 

To mend the choirs above. 

Orpheus could lead the savage race. 
And trees unrooted left their place 

Sequacious of the lyre: 
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher: 
When to her Organ vocal breath was given 
An Angel heard, and straight appear'd — 

Mistaking earth for heaven. 

GRAND CHORUS 

As from the power of sacred lays 

The spheres began to move. 
And sung the great Creator's praise 

To all the blest above; 
So when the last and dreadful hour 
This crumbling pageant shall devour. 
The trumpet shall be heard on high. 
The dead shall live, the living die. 
And Music shall untune the sky. 



JOHN DRYDEN 193 

ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC 

AN ODE IN HONOUR OF ST. CECILIA's DAY, 1697 



'TwAS at the royal feast for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike son: 
Aloft in awful state 
The godlike hero sate 
On his imperial throne; 
His valiant peers were placed around; 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound; 

(So should desert in arms be crown'd.) 
The lovely Thais, by his side. 
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride. 
In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
Happy, happy, happy pair! 
None but the brave. 
None but the brave. 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 

CHORUS 

Happy, happy, happy pair! 

None but the brave. 

None but the brave, 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 



Timotheus, placed on high 

Amid the tuneful choir, 
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre: 
The trembling notes ascend the sky. 

And heavenly joys inspire. 
The song began from Jove, 
Who left his blissful seats above, 
(Such is the power of mighty love) 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god: 
Sublime on radiant spires he rode, 



194 BRITISH POEMS 

When he to fair Ol^^mpia press'd; 
And while he sought her snowy breast: 
Then, round her slender waist he curl'd. 
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. 
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound, 
"A present deity," they shout around; 
"A present deity," the vaulted roofs rebound: 
With ravished ears 
The monarch hears. 
Assumes the god, 
Affects to nod. 
And seems to shake the spheres. 

Chorus: With ravished ears, etc. 



Ill 

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, 
Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young. 
The jolly god in triumph comes; 
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums; 
Flush'd with a purple grace 
He shows his honest face: 
Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes. 
Bacchus, ever fair and young. 

Drinking joys did first ordain; 
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure; 
Rich the treasure, 
Sweet the pleasure, 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

Chorus: Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, etc. 



IV 

Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain; 

Fought all his battles o'er again; 
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. 



JOHN DRYDEN 195 

The master saw the madness rise, 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; 
And while he heaven and earth defied. 
Changed his hand, and check'd his pride. 

He chose a mournful Muse, 

Soft pity to infuse; 
He sung Darius great and good, 

By too severe a fate, 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 

Fallen from his high estate. 
And weltering in his blood; 
Deserted at his utmost need 
By those his former bounty fed; 
On the bare earth exposed he lies. 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 

With downcast looks the joyless victor sate. 
Revolving in his alter'd soul 

The various turns of chance below: 
And, now and then, a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow. 

Chorus: Revolving in his alter'd soul, etc. 



The mighty master smiled to see 
That love was in the next degree; 
'Twas but a kindred sound to move, 
For pity melts the mind to love. 

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures. 

Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 
" War," he sung, " is toil and trouble; 
Honour but an empty bubble; 

Never ending, still beginning. 
Fighting still, and still destroying: 

If the world be worth thy winning, 
Think, O think it worth enjoying: 



196 BRITISH POEMS 

Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 

Take the good the gods provide thee." 

The many rend the skies with loud applause: 
So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause. 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care, 
And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, 
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again; 
At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, 
The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast. 

Chorus: The prince, unable to conceal his pain, etc. 

VI 

Now strike the golden lyre again; 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 
Break his bands of sleep asunder. 
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. 
Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
Has raised up his head; 
As awaked from the dead, 
And, amazed, he stares around. 
"Revenge, revenge!" Timotheus cries; 
"See the Furies arise; 
See the snakes that they rear, 
How they hiss in their hair. 
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes.f' 
Behold a ghastly band. 
Each a torch in his hand! 
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain. 
And unburied remain 
Inglorious on the plain: 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 
Behold how they toss their torches on high, 

How they point to the Persian abodes. 
And glittering temples of their hostile gods." 



JOHN DRYDEN 197 

The princes applaud with a furious joy; 

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; 

Thais led the way, 

To light him to his prey. 
And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 

Chorus: And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to de- 
stroy, etc. 

VII 

Thus, long ago. 
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow. 
While organs yet were mute, 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
And sounding lyre, 
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store. 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
And added length to solemn sounds. 
With nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize. 

Or both divide the crown: 
He raised a mortal to the skies; 
She drew an angel down. 

GRAND CHORUS 

At last divine Cecilia came, 

Inventress of the vocal frame; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store. 

Enlarged the former narrow bounds. 

And added length to solemn sounds. 
With nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before. 

Let old Timotheus yield the prize. 
Or both divide the crown: 

He raised a mortal to the skies; 
She drew an angel down. 



198 BRITISH POEMS 



MILTON 



Three poets, in three distant ages born, 
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. 
The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd. 
The next in majesty, in both the last. 
The force of Nature could no farther go; 
To make a third she join'd the former two. 



WILLIAM CONGREVE [1670-1729] 

AMORET 

Fair Amoret is gone astray; 

Pursue and seek her every lover; 
I'll tell the signs by which you may 

The wandering shepherdess discover. 

Coquet and coy at once her air. 

Both studied, though both seem neglected; 
Careless she is with artful care. 

Affecting to seem unaffected. 

^Yith skill her eyes dart every glance. 

Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect 'em; 

For she'd persuade they wound by chance, 
Though certain aim and art direct 'em. 

She likes herself, yet others hates 
For that which in herself she prizes; 

And, while she laughs at them, forgets 
She is the thing that she despises. 



LADY WINCHILSEA 199 

LADY WINCHILSEA [1661-1720] 

TO THE NIGHTINGALE 

Exert thy voice, sweet harbinger of Spring! 

This moment is thy time to sing, 

This moment I attend to praise. 

And set my numbers to thy lays; 

Free as thine shall be my song, 

As thy music, short or long; 

Poets, wild as thou, were born. 

Pleasing best when unconfined, 

When to please is least designed, 

Soothing but their cares to rest; 

Cares do still their thoughts molest. 

And still th' unhappy poet's breast 

Like thine, when best he sings, is placed against a thorn. 

She begins! Let all be still! 

Muse, thy promise now fulfil! 

Sweet, oh! sweet, still sweeter yet! 

Can thy words such accents fit? 

Canst thou syllables refine. 

Melt a sense that shall retain 

Still some spirit of the brain. 

Till with sounds like these it join? 

'Twill not be! then change thy note, 

Let division shake thy throat! 

Hark! division now she tries. 

Yet as far the Muse outflies! 

Cease then, prithee, cease thy tune, 

Trifler, wilt thou sing till June? 

Till thy business all lies waste 

And the time of building's past? 

Thus we poets that have speech 

Unlike what thy forests teach. 

If a fluent vein be shown 

That's transcendent to our own, 

Criticise, reform or preach. 

Censuring what we cannot reach. 



200 BRITISH POEMS 

MATTHEW PRIOR [1664-1721] 

TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS OLD 

Lords, knights, and 'squires, the numerous band, 
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters. 

Were summoned by her high command. 
To show their passions by their letters. 

My pen among the rest I took, 

Lest those bright e^ es that cannot read 

Should dart their kindling fires, and look 
The power they have to be obeyed. 

Nor quality, nor reputation. 

Forbid me yet my flame to tell; 
Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion, 

And I may write till she can spell. 

For, while she makes her silk-worms beds 
With all the tender things I swear; 

W^hilst all the house my passion reads 
In papers round her baby's hair; 

She may receive and ow^n my flame; 

For, though the strictest prudes should know it, 
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, 

And I for an unhappy poet. 

Then, too, alas! when she shall tear 
The lines some younger rival sends; 

She'll give me leave to write, I fear. 
And we shall still continue friends. 

For, as our different ages move, 

'Tis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it!) 

That I shall be past making love. 
When she begins to comprehend it. 



MATTHEW PRIOR 201 



CUPID MISTAKEN 

As, after noon, one summer's day, 
Venus stood bathing in a river, 

Cupid a-shooting went that way, 

New-strung his bow, new-filled his quiver. 

With skill he chose his sharpest dart: 
With all his might his bow he drew: 

Swuft to his beauteous parent's heart 
The too- well-guided arrow flew. 

I faint! I die! the goddess cried; 

cruel, could'st thou find none other 
To wreck thy spleen on? Parricide! 

Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother. 

Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak; 
Indeed, mamma, I did not know ye: 
Alas! how easy my mistake! 

1 took you for your likeness, Chloe. 



THE DYING ADRIAN TO HIS SOUL 

Poor, little, pretty, fluttering thing, 

Must we no longer live together? 
And dost thou prune thy trembling wing 

To take thy flight, thou know'st not whither? 
Thy humourous vein, thy pleasing folly, 

Lies all neglected, all forgot: 
And pensive, wavering, melancholy. 

Thou dread'st and hop'st, thou know'st not what. 



202 BRITISH POEMS 

EPIGRAMS 



I SENT FOR RATCLIFFE 

I SENT for Ratcliffe; was so ill, 
That other doctors gave me over: 

He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill. 
And I was likely to recover. 

But when the wit began to wheeze. 
And wine had warm'd the politician, 

Cured yesterday of my disease, 
I died last night of my physician. 

n 

FOR HIS OWN TOMB-STONE 

To me 'twas given to die: to thee 'tis given 
To live: alas! one moment sets us even. 
Mark! how impartial is the will of Heaven! 



JONATHAN SWIFT [1667-1745] 

THE BEASTS' CONFESSION 

When beasts could speak, (the learned say 

They still can do so every day,) 

It seems they had religion then. 

As much as now we find in men. 

It happen'd, when a plague broke out, 

(Which therefore made them more devout,) 

The king of brutes (to make it plain, 

Of quadrupeds I only mean) 

By proclamation gave command, 

That every subject in the land 



JONATHAN SWIFT 203 

Should to the priest confess their sins; 

And thus the pious Wolf begins: — 

" Good father, I must own with shame. 

That often I have been to blame: 

I must confess, on Friday last. 

Wretch that I was! I broke my fast: 

But I defy the basest tongue 

To prove I did my neighbour wrong; 

Or ever went to seek my food. 

By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood." 

The Ass approaching next, confess'd. 
That in his heart he loved a jest: 
A wag he was, he needs must own. 
And could not let a dunce alone: 
Sometimes his friend he would not spare. 
And might perhaps be too severe: 
But yet the worst that could be said, 
He was a wit both born and bred; 
And, if it be a sin and shame. 
Nature alone must bear the blame: 
One fault he has, is sorry for't. 
His ears are half a foot too short; 
Which could he to the standard bring. 
He'd show his face before the king: 
Then for his voice, there's none disputes 
That he's the nightingale of brutes. 

The Swine with contrite heart allow'd. 
His shape and beauty made him proud: 
In diet was perhaps too nice. 
But gluttony was ne'er his vice: 
In every turn of life content, 
And meekly took what fortune sent: 
Inquire through all the parish round, 
A better neighbour ne'er was found; 
His vigilance might some displease; 
'Tis true, he hated sloth like pease. 

The mimic Ape began his chatter. 
How evil tongues his life bespatter; 
Much of the censuring world complain'd. 
Who said, his gravity was feign'd: 



204 BRITISH POEMS ! 

Indeed, the strictness of his morals 

Engaged him in a hundred quarrels: ! 

He saw, and he was grieved to see't, ' 

His zeal was sometimes indiscreet: \ 

He found his virtues too severe ' 

For our corrupted times to bear; . 

Yet such a lewd licentious age j 

Might well excuse a stoic's rage. j 

The Goat advanced with decent pace, \ 

And first excused his youthful face; ■! 

Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd j 

('Twas Nature's fault) without a beard. \ 

'Tis true, he was not much inclined ■ 
To fondness for the female kind: 
Not, as his enemies object, 

From chance, or natural defect; j 

Not by his frigid constitution; j 
But through a pious resolution: 

For he had made a holy vow ; 

Of Chastity, as monlvs do now: j 

Which he resolved to keep for ever hence ; 

And strictly too, as doth his reverence. j 

Apply the tale, and you shall find, i 

How just it suits with human kind. I 

Some faults we own; but can you guess? j 

— Why, virtue 's carried to excess, [ 

Wherewith our vanity endows us, : 

Though neither foe nor friend allows us. j 

The Lawyer swears (you may rely on't) ; 

He never squeezed a needy client; j 

And this he makes his constant rule, j 

For which his brethren call him fool; 1 

His conscience always was so nice, ■; 

He freely gave the poor advice; '; 

By which he lost, he may afiirm, \ 

A hundred fees last Easter term; i 

While others of the learned robe, i 

Would break the patience of a Job. * 
No pleader at the bar could match 
His diligence and quick dispatch; 



JONATHAN SWIFT 205 

Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast, 
Above a term or two at most. 

The cringmg knave, who seeks a place 
Without success, thus tells his case: 
Why should he longer mince the matter? 
He fail'd, because he could not flatter; 
He had not learn'd to turn his coat. 
Nor for a party give his vote: 
His crime he quickly understood; 
Too zealous for the nation's good: 
He found the ministers resent it. 
Yet could not for his heart repent it. 

The Chaplain vows, he cannot fawn. 
Though it would raise him to the lawn: 
He pass'd his hours among his books; 
You find it in his meagre looks: 
He might, if he were worldly wise, 
Preferment get, and spare his eyes; 
But owns he had a stubborn spirit. 
That made him trust alone to merit; 
W^ould rise by merit to promotion; 
Alas! a mere chimeric notion. 

The Doctor, if you will believe him, 
Confess'd a sin; (and God forgive him!) 
Call'd up at midnight, ran to save 
A blind old beggar from the grave: 
But see how Satan spreads his snares; 
He quite forgot to say his prayers. 
He cannot help it, for his heart. 
Sometimes to act the parson's part: 
Quotes from the Bible many a sentence, 
That moves his patients to repentance; 
And, when his medicines do no good. 
Supports their minds with heavenly food: 
At wliich, however well intended. 
He hears the clergy are offended; 
And grown so bold behind his back. 
To call him hypocrite and quack. 
In his own church he keeps a seat; 
Says grace before and after meat; 



206 BRITISH POEMS 

And calls, without affecting airs. 
His household twice a-day to prayers. 
He shuns apothecaries' shops, 
And hates to cram the sick with slops: 
He scorns to make his art a trade; 
Nor bribes my lady's favourite maid. 
Old nurse-keepers would never hire, 
To recommend him to the squire; 
Which others, whom he will not name. 
Have often practised to their shame. 

The Statesman tells you, with a sneer, 
His fault is to be too smcere; 
And having no sinister ends, 
Is apt to disoblige his friends. 
The nation's good, his master's glory, 
Without regard to Whig or Tory, 
Were all the schemes he had in view. 
Yet he was seconded by few: 
Though some had spread a thousand lies, 
'Twas he defeated the excise. 
'Twas known, though he had borne aspersion. 
That standing troops were his aversion: 
His practice was, in every station. 
To serve the king, and please the nation. 
Though hard to find in every case 
The fittest man to fill a place: 
His promises he ne'er forgot. 
But took memorials on the spot; 
His enemies, for want of charity, 
Said, he affected popularity: 
'Tis true, the people understood. 
That all he did was for their good; 
Their kind affections he has tried; 
No love is lost on either side. 
He came to court with fortune clear. 
Which now he runs out everj^ year; 
Must, at the rate that he goes on. 
Inevitably be undone: 
O! if his majesty would please 
To give him but a writ of ease. 



JONATHAN SWIFT 207 

Would grant him license to retire, 
As it has long been his desire. 
By fair accounts it would be found, 
He's poorer by ten thousand pound. 
He owns, and hopes it is no sin, 
He ne'er was partial to his kin; 
He thought it base for men in stations. 
To crowd the court with their relations: 
His country was his dearest mother. 
And every virtuous man his brother; 
Through modesty or awkward shame, 
(For which he owns himself to blame,) 
He found the wisest man he could. 
Without respect to friends or blood; 
Nor ever acts on private views. 
When he has liberty to choose. 

The Sharper swore he hated play. 
Except to pass an hour away: 
And well he might; for, to his cost. 
By want of skill, he always lost; 
He heard there was a club of cheats. 
Who had contrived a thousand feats; 
Could change the stock, or cog a die. 
And thus deceive the sharpest eye: 
Nor wonder how his fortune sunk, 
His brothers fleece him when he's drunk. 

I own the moral not exact. 
Besides, the tale is false, in fact; 
And so absurd, that could I raise up. 
From fields Elysian, fabling iEsop, 
I would accuse him to his face. 
For libelling the four-foot race. 
Creatures of every kind but ours 
Well comprehend their natural powers. 
While we, whom reason ought to sway. 
Mistake our talents every day. 
The Ass was never laiown so stupid 
To act the part of Tray or Cupid; 
Nor leaps upon his master's lap. 
There to be stroked, and fed with pap. 



208 BRITISH POEMS 

As yEsop would the world persuade; 
He better understands his trade: 
Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles, 
But carries loads, and feeds on thistles. 
Our author's meaning, I presume, is 
A creature hipes et implumis; 
Wherein the moralist design'd 
A compliment on human kind; 
For here he owns, that now and then 
Beasts may degenerate into men. 



AMBROSE PHILIPS [1675.^-1749] 

TO MISS CHARLOTTE PULTENEY, IN HER 
MOTHER'S ARMS 

Timely blossom, Infant fair, 
Fondling of a happy pair. 
Every morn and every night 
Their solicitous delight. 
Sleeping, waking, still at ease. 
Pleasing, without skill to please; 
Little gossip, blithe and hale, 
Tattling many a broken tale. 
Singing many a tuneless song. 
Lavish of a heedless tongue. 
Simple maiden, void of art, 
Babbling out the very heart. 
Yet abandoned to thy will. 
Yet imagining no ill, 
Yet too innocent to blush, 
Like the linnet in the bush. 
To the mother-linnet's note 
Moduling her slender throat, 
Chirping forth thy pretty joys, 
Wanton in the change of toys. 
Like the linnet green, in May, 
Flitting to each bloomy spray. 



ALEXANDER POPE 209 

Wearied then, and glad of rest, 

Like the Hnnet in the nest. 

This thy present happy lot, 

This, in time, will be forgot; 

Other pleasures, other cares, 

Ever-busy Time prepares; 
And thou shalt in thy daughter see 
This picture, once, resembled thee. 



ALEXANDER POPE [1688-1744] 

SOLITUDE 

Happy the man, whose wish and care 
A few paternal acres bound. 
Content to breathe his native air 
In his own ground: 

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread. 
Whose flocks supply him with attire; 
Whose trees in summer yield him shade. 
In winter fire: 

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find 
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away 
In health of body, peace of mind. 
Quiet by day: 

Sound sleep by night; study and ease 
Together mixt, sweet recreation, 
And innocence, which most does please 
With meditation. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; 
Thus unlamented let me die; 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 



210 BRITISH POEMS j 



TRUE WIT 

Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, 
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. 
In every work regard the writer's end. 
Since none can compass more than they intend; 
And if the means be just, the conduct true. 
Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due; 
As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, 
To avoid great errors, must the less commit: 
Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays, 
For not to know some trifles, is a praise. 
Most critics, fond of some subservient art. 
Still make the whole depend upon a part: 
They talk of principles, but notions prize, 
And all to one lov'd folly sacrifice. 

Once on a time. La Mancha's knight, they say, 
A certain bard encount'ring on the way, 
Discours'd in terms as just, with looks as sage, 
As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage; 
Concluding all were desperate sots and fools, 
Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules. 
Our author, happy in a judge so nice, 
Produc'd his play, and begg'd the knight's advice; 
Made him observe the subject, and the plot. 
The manners, passions, unities, what not.^ 
All which, exact to rule, were brought about. 
Were but a combat in the lists left out. 
"What! leave the combat out?" exclaims the knight; 
Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite. 
"Not so, by Heaven" (he answers in a rage), 
"Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on the stage." 
So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain. 
"Then build a new, or act it in a plain." 

'Thus critics, of less judgment than caprice. 
Curious not knowing, not exact but nice. 
Form short ideas; and offend in arts 
(As most in manners) by a love to parts. 



ALEXANDER POPE 211 

Some to conceit alone their taste confine. 
And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at every Hne; 
Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit; 
One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. 
Poets like painters, thus unskill'd to trace 
The naked nature and the living grace, 
With gold and jewels cover every part, 
And hide with ornaments their want of art. 
True wit is nature to advantage dress'd. 
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd; 
Something, whose truth convinc'd at sight we find. 
That gives us back the image of our mind. 
As shades more sweetly recommend the light, 
So modest plainness set off sprightly wit. 
For works may have more wit than does 'em good. 
As bodies perish thro' excess of blood. 

Others for language all their care express. 
And value books, as women men, for dress: 
Their praise is still, — " The style is excellent: " 
The sense, they humbly take upon content. 
Words are like leaves; and where they most abound. 
Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found; 
False eloquence, like the prismatic glass. 
Its gaudy colors spreads on every place; 
The face of nature we no more survey. 
All glares alike, without distinction gay: 
But true expression, like th' unchanging sun. 
Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon. 
It gilds all objects, but it alters none. 
Expression is the dress of thought, and still 
Appears more decent, as more suitable; 
A vile conceit in pompous words express'd. 
Is like a clown in regal purple dress'd: 
For different styles with different subjects sort, 
As several garbs with country, town, and court. 
Some by old words to fame have made pretense. 
Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense; 
Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style. 
Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learned smile. 



212 BRITISH POEMS 

Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play, 

These sparks with awkward vanity display 

What the fine gentleman wore yesterday; 

And but so mimic ancient wits at best 

As apes our grandsires in their doublets dress'd. 

In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold; 

Alike fantastic, if too new, or old: 

Be not the first by whom the new are tried. 

Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. 

But most by numbers judge a poet's song; 
And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong: 
In the bright Muse, tho' thousand charms conspire, 
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire; 
Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear. 
Not mend their minds; as some to church repair. 
Not for the doctrine, but the music there. 
These equal syllables alone require, 
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire; 
While expletives their feeble aid do join; 
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line: 
While they ring round the same unvary'd chimes. 
With sure returns of still expected rhymes; 
Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze," 
In the next line, it "whispers through the trees;" 
If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs cre'ep," 
The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "sleep;" 
Then, at the last and only couplet, fraught 
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, 
A needless Alexandrine ends the song. 
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. 
Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know 
What's roundly smooth or languishingly slow; 
And praise the easy vigor, of a line. 
Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join. 
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance. 
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance. 
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offense. 
The sound must seem an echo to the sense: 
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, 
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; 



ALEXANDER POPE 213 

But when loud surges lash the sounding shores, 

The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar: 

When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw. 

The line, too, labours, and the words move slow; 

Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain. 

Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. 

Hear how Timotheus' vary'd lays surprise. 

And bid alternate passions fall and rise! 

While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove 

Now burns with glory, and then melts with love; 

Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow. 

Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow: 

Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found. 

And the world's victor stood subdued by sound! 

The power of music all our hearts allow. 

And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. 

Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such. 
Who still are pleas'd too little or too much. 
At every trifle scorn to take offense. 
That always shows great pride, or little sense; 
Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best. 
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. 
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move; 
For fools admire, but men of sense approve: 
As things seem large which we through mists descry, 
Dulness is ever apt to magnify. 

[From Part II of An Essay on Criticism.] 



AN ESSAY ON MAN 

Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things 

To low ambition, and the pride of kings. 

Let us (since life can little more supply 

Than just to look about us, and to die) 

Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man; 

A mighty maze! but not without a plan; 

A wild, where weeds and flow'rs promiscuous shoot; 

Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. 



214 BRITISH POEMS 

Together let us beat this ample jBeld, 

Try what the open, what the covert yield! 

The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore 

Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar; 

Eye nature's walks, shoot folly as it jflies. 

And catch the manners living as they rise: 

Laugh where we must, be candid where we can; 

But vindicate the ways of God to man. 

Say first, of God above, or man below. 

What can we reason, but from what we know? 

Of man, what see we but his station here. 

From which to reason, or to which refer? 

Thro' worlds unnumber'd tho' the God be known, 

'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. 

He, who thro' vast immensity can pierce. 

See worlds on worlds compose one universe. 

Observe how system into system runs, 

What other planets circle other suns, 

What vary'd being peoples every star. 

May tell why heav'n has made us as we are. 

But of this frame the bearings and the ties. 

The strong connections, nice dependencies. 

Gradations just, has thy pervading soul 

Look'd thro'? or can a part contain the whole? 

Is the great chain, that draws all to agree. 
And drawn support, upheld by God, or thee? 
Presumptuous man! the reason wouldst thou find. 
Why form'd so weak, so little, and so blind? 
First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess, 
Why form'd no weaker, blinder, and no less? 
Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made 
Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade? 
Or ask of yonder argent fields above. 
Why Jove's Satellites are less than Jove? 

Of systems possible, if 'tis confest 
That wisdom infinite must form the best, 
Where all must full or not coherent be, 
And all that rises, rise in due degree; 
Then, in the scale of reas'ning life, 'tis plain, 
There must be, somewhere, such a rank as man: 



ALEXANDER POPE 215 

And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) 
Is only this, if God has plac'd him wrong? 

Respecting man whatever wrong we call. 
May, must be right, as relative to all. 
In human works, tho' labour'd on with pain, 
A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain; 
In God's, one single can its end produce; 
Yet serves to second too some other use. 
So man, who here seems principal alone, 
Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown. 
Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal; 
'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. 

When the proud steed shall know why man restrains 
His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains; 
When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod. 
Is now a victim, and now ^Egypt's god: 
Then shall man's pride and dullness comprehend 
His actions', passions', being's, use and end; 
Why doing, suff'ring, check'd, impell'd; and why 
This hour a slave, the next a deity. 

Then say not man's imperfect, heav'n in fault; 
Say rather, man's as perfect as he ought: 
His knowledge measur'd to his state and place; 
His time a moment, and a point his space. 
If to be perfect in a certain sphere. 
What matter, soon or late, or here or there .^ 
The blest to-day is as completely so. 
As who began a thousand years ago. 

Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of fate, 
All but the page prescrib'd, their present state: 
From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: 
Or who could suffer being here below? 
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day. 
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? 
Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food. 
And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood. 
Oh blindness to the future! kindly giv'n, 
That each may fill the circle mark'd by heav'n: 
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, 



216 BRITISH POEMS ( 

,j 
Atoms or systems into ruin hurrd, | 

And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 

Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; 
Wait the great teacher death, and God adore. 
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, 
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
Hope springs eternal in the human breast: 
Man never is, but always to be blest: 
The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home. 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 

Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind 
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; 
His soul, proud science never taught to stray 
Far as the solar walk, or milky way; 
Yet simple nature to his hope has giv'n. 
Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heav'n; 
Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd. 
Some happier island in the wat'ry waste, 
Where slaves once more their native land behold, 
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 
To Be, contents his natural desire. 
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; 
But thinks admitted to that equal sky, 
His faithful dog shall bear him company. 

Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense, 
Weigh thy opinion against providence; 
Call imperfection what thou fancy'st such. 
Say, Here he gives too little, there too much: 
Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust. 
Yet cry. If man's unhappy, God's unjust; 
If man alone ingross not Heav'n's high care, 
Alone made perfect here, immortal there: 
Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, 
Re-judge his justice, be the God of God. 
In pride, in reas'ning pride, our error lies; 
All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. 
Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes; 
Men would be angels, angels would be gods. 
Aspiring to be gods if angels fell. 
Aspiring to be angels men rebel: 



ALEXANDER POPE 217 

And who but wishes to invert the laws 
Of order, sins against th' eternal cause. 

Ask for what end the heav'nly bodies shine, 
Earth for whose use? pride answers, "'Tis for mine: 
For me kind nature wakes her genial pow'r, 
Suckles each herb, and spreads out ev'ry flow'r; 
Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew 
The juice nectareous, and the balmj^ dew; 
For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings; 
For me, health gushes from a thousand springs; 
Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise; 
My foot-stool earth, my canopy the skies." 

But errs not nature from this gracious end, 
From burning suns when livid deaths descend, 
When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep 
Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep.'' 
"No ('tis reply'd) the first almighty cause 
Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws; 
Th' exceptions few; some change since all began: 
And what created perfect?" — Why then man? 
If the great end be human happiness, 
Then nature deviates; and can man do less? 
As much that end a constant course requires 
Of show'rs and sun-shine, as of man's desires; 
As much eternal springs and cloudless skies. 
As men for ever temp'rate, calm, and wise. 
If plagues or earthquakes break not Heav'n's design. 
Why then a Borgia, or a Catiline? 
Who knows but he, whose hand the light'ning forms, 
Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the storms; 
Pours fierce ambition in a Caesar's mind. 
Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind? 
From pride, from pride, our very reas'ning springs; 
Account for moral as for nat'ral things: 
Why charge we heav'n in those, in these acquit? 
In both, to reason right is to submit. 

Better for us, perhaps, it might appear, 
Were there all harmony, all virtue here; 
That never air or ocean felt the wind. 
That never passion discompos'd the mind. 



218 BRITISH POEMS 

But all subsists by elemental strife; 
And passions are the elements of life. 
The gen'ral order, since the whole began, 
Is kept in nature, and is kept in man. 

What would this man? Now upward will he soar. 
And little less than angel, would be more; 
Now looking downward, just as griev'd appears 
To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. 
Made for his use all creatures if he call. 
Say what their use, had he the pow'rs of all; 
Nature to these, without profusion, kind. 
The proper organs, proper pow'rs assign'd; 
Each seeming want compensated of course, 
Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force; 
All in exact proportion to the state; 
Nothing to add, and nothing to abate. 
Each beast, each insect, happy in its own: 
Is Heav'n unkind to man, and man alone.? 
Shall he alone, whom rational we call 
Be pleas'd with nothing, if not blest with all? 

The bliss of man (could pride that blessing find) 
Is not to act or think beyond mankind; 
No pow'rs of body, or of soul to share. 
But what his nature and his state can bear. 
Why has not man a microscopic eye? 
For this plain reason, man is not a fly. 
Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n, 
T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n? 
Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er. 
To smart and agonize at ev'ry pore? 
Or quick effluvia darting thro' the brain. 
Die of a rose in aromatic pain? 
If nature thunder'd in his op'ning ears. 
And stunn'd him with the music of the spheres, 
How would he wish that heav'n had left him still 
The whisp'ring zephyr, and the purling rill? 
Who finds not Providence all good and wise. 
Alike in what it gives, and what denies? 

Far as creation's ample range extends. 
The scale of sensual, mental pow'rs ascends: 



ALEXANDER POPE 219 

Mark how it mounts to man's imperial race, 
From the green myriads in the peopled grass: 
What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme. 
The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam: 
Of smell, the headlong lioness between. 
And hound sagacious on the tainted green: 
Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood. 
To that which warbles through the vernal w^ood? 
The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! 
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line: 
In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true 
From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew: 
How instinct varies in the grov'ling swine, 
Compar'd, half reas'ning elephant, with thine! 
'Twixt that, and reason, what a nice barrier? 
For ever sep'rate, yet for ever near! 
Remembrance and reflection how ally'd; 
What thin partitions sense from thought divide? 
And middle natures, how they long to join. 
Yet never pass th' insuperable line! 
Without this just gradation, could they be 
Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? 
The pow'rs of all subdu'd by thee alone. 
Is not thy reason all these pow'rs in one? 

See, thro' this air, this ocean, and this earth. 
All matter quick, and bursting into birth. 
Above, how high progressive life may go! 
Around, how wide! how deep extend below! 
Vast chain of being! which from God began. 
Natures ethereal, human, angel, man. 
Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see. 
No glass can reach; from Infinite to thee. 
From thee to nothing. On superior pow'rs 
Were we to press, inferior might on ours; 
Or in the full creation leave a void. 
Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd: 
From Nature's chain whatever link you strike. 
Tenth, or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. 

And, if each system in gradation roll 
Alike essential to th' amazing whole, 



220 BRITISH POEMS 

The least confusion but in one, not all 
That system only, but the whole must fall. 
Let earth unbalanc'd from her orbit fly. 
Planets and suns run lawless thro' the sky; 
Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurl'd, 
Being on being wreck'd, and world on world; 
Heav'n's whole foundations to their centre nod. 
And nature tremble to the throne of God. 
All this dread order break — for whom? for thee? 
Vile worm!— oh madness! pride! impiet^M 

What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, 
Or hand, to toil, aspirVl to be the head? 
What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd 
To serve mere engines to the ruling mind? 
Just as absurd for any part to claim 
To be another, in this gen'ral frame; 
Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains 
The great directing Mind of all ordains. 

All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
Whose body nature is, and God the soul; 
That, chang'd thro' all, and yet in all the same. 
Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame. 
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze. 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, 
Lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent, 
Spreads undivided, operates unspent; 
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; 
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns. 
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns: 
To him no high, no low, no great, no small; 
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. 

Cease then, nor order imperfection name: 
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 
Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree 
Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee. 
Submit. In this, or any other sphere. 
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear: 
Safe in the hand of one disposing pow'r. 
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 



JOHN GAY 221 

All nature is but art, unknown to thee; 

All chance, direction which thou canst not see; 

All discord, harmony not understood; 

All partial evil, universal good. 

And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite. 

One truth is clear, "Whatever is, is right." 

[Epistle 1.] 



JOHN GAY [1685-1732] 

THE HARE WITH MANY FRIENDS 

Friendship, like love, is but a name, 
Unless to one you stint the flame. 
The child whom many fathers share, 
Hath seldom known a father's care. 
'Tis thus in friendship; who depend 
On many, rarely find a friend. 

A Hare, who, in a civil way. 
Complied with everything, like Gay, 
Was known bj^ all the bestial train. 
Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain. 
Her care was, never to offend. 
And every creature was her friend. 

As forth she went at early dawn. 
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn. 
Behind she hears the hunter's cries. 
And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies: 
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath; 
She hears the near advance of death; 
She doubles, to mislead the hound. 
And measures back her mazy round. 
Till, fainting in the public way. 
Half dead with fear she gasping lay. 

What transport in her bosom grew, 
When first the Horse appeared in view ! * 
"Let me," says she, "your back ascend, 
And owe my safety to a friend. 



222 BRITISH POEMS 

You know my feet betray my flight; 
To friendship every burden's hght." 
The Horse repHed: "Poor honest Puss, 
It grieves my heart to see thee thus; 
Be comforted; reUef is near, 
For all your friends are in the rear." 

She next the stately Bull implored; 
And thus replied the mighty lord. 
"Since every beast alive can tell 
That I sincerely wish you well, 
I may, without offence, pretend. 
To take the freedom of a friend; 
Love calls me hence ; a favourite cow 
Expects me near yon barley-mow: 
And when a lady's in the case. 
You know, all other things give place. 
To leave you thus might seem unkind; 
But see, the Goat is just behind." 

The Goat remarked her pulse was high. 
Her languid head, her heavy eye; 
"My back," says he, "may do you harm; 
The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." 

The Sheep was feeble, and complained 
His sides a load of wool sustained: 
Said he was slow, confessed his fears, 
For hounds eat sheep as well as hares. 

She now the trotting Calf addressed. 
To save from death a friend distressed. 
"Shall I," says he, "of tender age. 
In this important care engage .f^ 
Older and abler passed you by; 
How strong are those, how weak am I! 
Should I presume to bear you hence. 
Those friends of mine may take offence. 
Excuse me, then. You know my heart. 
But dearest friends, alas! must part! 
How shall we all lament: Adieu! 
For see, the hounds are just in view." 



JAMES THOMSON 223 

JAMES THOMSON [1700-1748] 

THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE 

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side 
With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, 
A most enchanting wizard did abide. 
Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. 
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground; 
And there a season at ween June and May, 
Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrowned, 
A listless climate made, where, sooth to say. 
No living wight could work, ne cared for play. 

Was nought around but images of rest: 
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between; 
And flowery beds, that slumbrous influence kest, 
From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green. 
Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 
Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets played. 
And hurled everywhere their waters sheen; 
That, as they bickered through the sunny glade. 
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. 

Joined to the prattle of the purling rills. 
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, 
And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills. 
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale: 
And now and then sweet Philomel would wail. 
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep. 
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; 
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep: 
Yet all the sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. 

Full in the passage of the vale, above, 

A sable, silent, solemn forest stood; 

Where nought but shadowy forms were seen to move. 

As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood: 



224^ BRITISH POEMS 

And up the hills, on either side, a wood 
Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro. 
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; 
And where this valley winded out below, 
The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. 

A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was: 
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
Forever flushing round a summer-sky. 
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly 
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, 
And the calm pleasures, always hovered nigh; 
But whate'er smackt of noyance, or unrest, 
Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest. 

A certain music, never known before. 
Here lulled the pensive, melancholy mind; 
Full easily obtained. Behoves no more. 
But sidelong to the gently- waving wind 
To lay the well-tuned instrument reclined; 
From which, with airy flying fingers light. 
Beyond each mortal touch the most refined. 
The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight: 
Whence, with just cause, the harp of ^Flolus it hight. 

Near the pavilions where we slept, still ran 
Soft-tinkling streams, and dashing waters fell, 
And sobbing breezes sighed, and oft began 
(So worked the wizard) wintry storms to swell. 
As heaven and earth they would together mell: 
At doors and windows, threatening, seemed to call 
The demons of the tempest, growling fell. 
Yet the least entrance found they none at all; 
Whence sweeter grew our sleep, secure in massy hall. 

And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams. 
Raising a world of gayer tinct and grace; 
O'er which were shadowy cast Elysian gleams, 



JAMES THOMSON 225 

That played, in waving lights, from place to place, 
And shed a roseate smile on Nature's face. 
Not Titian's pencil e'er could so array, 
So fleece with clouds, the pure ethereal space; 
Ne could it e'er such melting forms display. 
As loose on flowery beds all languishingly lay. 

[From Canto I of the poem of the same title.] 



HYMN 

These, as they change. Almighty Father, these. 
Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring 
Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. 
Wide-flush the fields; the softening air is balm; 
Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; 
And every sense, and every heart is joy. 
Then comes thy glory in the summer-months. 
With light and heart refulgent. Then thy sun 
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year: 
And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks; 
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve. 
By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. 
Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined. 
And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 
In winter awful thou! with clouds and storms 
Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled 
Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing. 
Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore. 
And humblest Nature with thy northern blast. 

Mysterious round! what skill, what force Divine, 
Deepfelt, in these appear! a simple train. 
Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art. 
Such beauty and beneficence combined: 
Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade; 
And all so forming an harmonious whole; 
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze. 



226 BRITISH POEMS 

Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty Hand, 
That, ever-busy, wheels the silent spheres; 
Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, thence 
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring: 
Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; 
Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth; 
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves. 
With transport touches all the springs of life. 

Nature, attend! join every living soul. 
Beneath the spacious temple of the skj^ 
In adoration join; and ardent raise 
One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales, 
Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes. 
Oh, talk of Him, in solitary glooms, 
Where o'er the rock the scarcely waving pine 
Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. 
And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar. 
Who shake the astonished world, lift high to heaven 
The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. 
His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; 
And let me catch it as I muse along. 
Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; 
Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze 
Along the vale; and thou, majestic main, 
A secret world of wonders in thyself, 
Sound His stupendous praise, whose greater voice 
Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 
So roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers. 
In mingled clouds to Him, whose sun. exalts. 
Whose breath perfumes j^ou, and whose pencil paints. 
Ye forests, bend, ye harvests, wave to him; 
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart. 
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. 
Ye that keep watch in Heaven, as earth asleep 
Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams; 
Ye constellations, while your angels strike, 
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 
Great source of day! blest image here below 
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 



JAMES THOMSON 227 

From world to world, the vital ocean round. 

On nature write with every beam His praise. 

The thunder rolls: be hushed the prostrate world. 

While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. 

Bleat out afresh, ye hills; ye mossy rocks, 

Retain the sound; the broad responsive low. 

Ye valleys, raise; for the Great Shepherd reigns. 

And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. 

Ye woodlands, all awake; a boundless song 

Burst from the groves; and when the restless day, 

Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep. 

Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm 

The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. 

Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles; 

At once the head, the heart, the tongue of all, 

Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast, 

Assembled men to the deep organ join 

The long resounding voice, oft breaking clear. 

At solemn pauses, through the swelling base; 

And, as each mingling flame increases each, 

In one united ardour rise to Heaven. 

Or if you rather choose the rural shade, 

And find a fane in every sacred grove, 

There let the shepherd's lute, the virgin's lay. 

The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre. 

Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll. 

For me, when I forget the darling theme, 

Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray 

Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams. 

Or Winter rises in the blackening east — 

Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more. 

And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat. 

Should Fate command me to the furthest verge 
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes. 
Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun 
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 
Flames on the Atlantic isles, 't is nought to me; 
Since God is ever present, ever felt. 
In the void waste as in the city full; 



228 BRITISH POEMS 

And where He vital breathes, there must be joy. 
When even at last the solemn Hour shall come, 
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, 
I cheerfully will obey; there with new powers, 
Will rising wonders sing. I cannot go 
Where Universal Love not smiles around, 
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns; 
From seeming evil still educing good. 
And better thence again, and better still. 
In infinite progression. But I lose 
Myself in Him, in Light ineffable! 
Come, then, expressive silence, muse His praise. 

[Postlude to The Seasons 



JOHN DYER [1700-1758] 

GRONGAR HILL 

Silent Nymph, with curious eye! 
Who, the purple evening, lie 
On the mountain's lonely van. 
Beyond the noise of busy man; 
Painting fair the form of things, 
Wliile the yellow linnet sings; 
Or the tuneful nightingale 
Charms the forest with her tale; 
Come, with all thy various hues, 
Come, and aid thy sister Muse; 
Now while Phoebus riding high 
Gives lustre to the land and sky! 
Grongar Hill invites my song. 
Draw the landskip bright and strong; 
Grongar, in whose mossy cells 
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells; 
Grongar, in whose silent shade. 
For the modest Muses made. 
So oft I have, the evening still. 
At the fountain of a rill. 



JOHN DYER 229 

Sate upon a flowery bed, 

With my hand beneath my head; 

While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood, 

Over mead, and over wood, 

From house to house, from hill to hill, 

'Till Contemplation had her fill. 

About his chequered sides I wind. 
And leave his brooks and meads behind. 
And groves, and grottoes where I la^', 
And vistas shooting beams of day: 
Wide and wider spreads the vale, 
As circles on a smooth canal: 
The mountains round — unhappy fate! 
Sooner or later, of all height. 
Withdraw their summits from the skies. 
And lessen as the others rise: 
Still the prospect wider spreads, 
Adds a thousand woods and meads; 
Still it widens, widens still. 
And sinks the newly-risen hill. 

Now I gain the mountain's brow. 
What a landskip lies below! 
No clouds, no vapours intervene. 
But the gay, the open scene 
Does the face of nature shew. 
In all the hues of heaven's bow! 
And, swelling to embrace the light, 
Spreads around beneath the sight. 

Old castles on the clifi^s arise, 
Proudly towering in the skies! 



Rushing from the woods, the spires 
Seem from hence ascending fires! 
Half his beams Apollo sheds 
On the yellow mountain-heads! 
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, 
And glitters on the broken rocks! 

Below me trees unnumbered rise. 
Beautiful in various dyes: 
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, 
The yellow beech, the sable yew. 



230 BRITISH POEMS 

The slender fir, that taper grows, 

The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs; 

And beyond the purple grove, 

Haunt of Phillis, queen of love! 

Gaudy as the opening dawn, 

Lies a long and level lawn 

On which a dark hill, steep and high, 

Holds and charms the wandering eye! 

Deep are his feet in Towy's flood. 

His sides are cloth'd with waving wood. 

And ancient towers crown his brow. 

That cast an aweful look below; 

Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps. 

And with her arms from falling keeps: 

So both a safety from the wind 

On mutual dependence find. 

'Tis now the raven's bleak abode; 
'Tis now th' apartment of the toad; 
And there the fox securely feeds; 
And there the poisonous adder breeds 
Conceal'd in ruins, moss and weeds; 
While, ever and anon, there falls 
Huge heaps of hoary mouldered walls. 
Yet time has seen, that hfts the low. 
And level lays the lofty brow. 
Has seen this broken pile compleat. 
Big with the vanity of state; 
But transient is the smile of fate! 
A little rule, a little sway, 
A sunbeam in a winter's day. 
Is all the proud and mighty have 
Between the cradle and the grave. 

And see the rivers how they run, 
Thro' woods and meads, in shade and sun. 
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, 
Wave succeeding wave, they go 
A various journey to the deep. 
Like human life to endless sleep! 
Thus is nature's vesture wrought. 
To instruct our wandering thought; 



JOHN DYER 231 

Thus she dresses green and gay, 
To disperse our cares away. 

Ever charming, ever new. 
When will the landskip tire the view! 
The fountain's fall, the river's flow, 
The woody valleys, warm and low; 
The windy summit, wild and high, 
Roughly rushing on the sky; 
The pleasant seat, the ruined tower. 
The naked rock, the shady bower; 
The town and village, dome and farm. 
Each gives each a double charm, 
As pearls upon an ^^thiop's arm. 

See, on the mountain's southern side. 
Where the prospect opens wide. 
Where the evening gilds the tide; 
How close and small the hedges lie! 
Wliat streaks of meadows cross the eye! 
A step methinks may pass the stream, 
So little distant dangers seem; 
So we mistake the future's face. 
Eyed thro' Hope's deluding glass; 
As yon summits soft and fair 
Clad in colours of the air. 
Which to those who journey near. 
Barren, brown, and rough appear; 
Still we tread the same coarse way; 
The present's still a cloudy day. 

O may I with myself agree. 
And never covet what I see: 
Content me with an humble shade. 
My passions tamed, my wishes laid; 
For while our wishes wildly roll. 
We banish quiet from the soul: 
'Tis thus the busy beat the air; 
And misers gather wealth and care. 

Now, even now, my joys run high. 
As on the mountain-turf I lie; 
While the wanton Zephyr sings. 
And in the vale perfumes his wings; 



232 BRITISH POEMS 

While the waters murmur deep; 
While the shepherd charms his sheep; 
While the birds unbounded fly, 
And with music fill the sky, 
Now, even now, my joys run high. 

Be full, ye courts, be great who will; 
Search for Peace with all your skill: 
Open wide the lofty door, 
Seek her on the marble floor. 
In vain ye search, she is not there; 
In vain ye search the domes of Care! 
Grass and flowers Quiet treads. 
On the meads, and mountain-heads. 
Along with Pleasure, close allied, 
Ever by each other's side: 
And often, by the murmuring rill. 
Hears the thrush, while all is still. 
Within the groves of Grongar Hill. 



EDWARD YOUNG [1681-1765] 

MAN 

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, 

How complicate, how wonderful, is man! 

How passing wonder He, who made him such! 

Who centred in our make such strange extremes! 

From different natures marvellously mixt. 

Connection exquisite of distant worlds! 

Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain! 

Midway from nothing to the deity! 

A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorpt! 

Tho' sullied, and dishonour'd, still divine! 

Dim miniature of greatness absolute! 

An heir of glory! a frail child of dust! 

Helpless immortal! insect infinite! 

A worm! a god! — I tremble at myself. 

And in myself am lost! at home a stranger. 



EDWARD YOUNG 233 

Thought wanders up and down, surpris'd, aghast, 
And wond'ring at her own: how reason reels! 
O what a miracle to man is man. 
Triumphantly distress'd! what joy, what dread! 
Alternately transported, and alarm'd! 
What can preserve my life? or what destroy? 
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; 
Legions of angels can't conjBne me there. 

'Tis past conjecture; all things rise in proof: 
While o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion spreads: 
What though my soul fantastic measures trod 
O'er fairy fields; or mourn'd along the gloom 
Of pathless woods; or down the craggy steep 
Hurl'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool; 
Or scal'd the cliff; or danc'd on hollow winds, 
With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain? 
Her ceaseless flight, tho' devious, speaks her nature 
Of subtler essence than the trodden clod; 
Active, aerial, tow'ring, unconfin'd, 
Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall. 
Ev'n silent night proclaims eternal daj^ 
For human weal, heaven husbands all events; 
Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain. 

Why then their love deplore that are not lost? 
Why wanders wretched thought their tombs around. 
In infidel distress? Are angels there? 
Slumbers, rak'd up in dust, ethereal fire? 

They live! they greatly live a life on earth 
Unkindled, unconceiv'd; and from an eye 
Of tenderness let heavenly pity fall 
On me, more justly number'd with the dead. 
This is the desert, this the solitude: 
How populous, how vital is the grave! 
This is creation's melancholy vault. 
The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom; 
The land of apparitions, empty shades! 
All, all on earth, is shadow, all beyond 
Is substance; the reverse is folly's creed; 
How solid all, where change shall be no more! 



234 BRITISH POEMS 

This is the bud of being, the dim dawn. 
The twihght of our day, the vestibule; 
Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, 
Strong death alone can heave the massy bar. 
This gross impediment of clay remove. 
And make us embryos of existence free. 
From real life, but little more remote 
Is he, not yet a candidate for light. 
The future embryo, slumb'ring in his sire. 
Embryos we must be, till we burst the shell. 
Yon ambient azure shell, and spring to life. 
The life of gods, O transport! and of man. 

Yet man, fool man! here buries all his thoughts; 
Inters celestial hopes without one sigh. 
Prisoner of earth, and pent beneath the moon. 
Here pinions all his wishes; wing'd by heaven 
To fly at mfinite: and reach it there 
Where seraphs gather immortality. 
On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God. 
What golden joys ambrosial clust'ring glow 
In his full beam, and ripen for the just, 
Where momentary ages are no more! 
Where time, and pain, and chance, and death expire! 
And is it in the flight of threescore years 
To push eternity from human thought. 
And smother souls immortal in the dust? 
A soul immortal, spending all her fires, 
Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness. 
Thrown into tumult, raptur'd, or alarm'd. 
At aught this scene can threaten or indulge. 
Resembles ocean into tempest wrought, 
To waft a feather, or to drown a fly. 

[From Night I, Night Thodghts.J 



WILLIAM SHENSTONE 235 

WILLIAM SHENSTONE [1714-1763] 

THE DYING KID 

A TEAR bedews my Delia's eye, 
To think 3'on playful kid must die; 
From crystal spring and flowery mead 
Must, in his prime of life, recede. 

Erewhile in sportive circles round 
She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound; 
From rock to rock pursue his way. 
And on the fearful margin play. 

Pleased on his various freaks to dwell 
She saw him climb m}' rustic cell; 
Then eye my lawns with verdure bright. 
And seem all ravished at the sight. 

She tells with what delight he stood 
To trace his features in the flood; 
Then skipped aloof with quaint amaze 
And then drew near again to gaze. 

She tells me how with eager speed 
He flew to hear my vocal reed; 
And how with critic face profound, 
And steadfast ear devoured the sound. 

His every frolic light as air 
Deserves the gentle Delia's care; 
And tears bedew her tender eye. 
To think the playful kid must die. 

But knows my Delia, timely wise. 
How soon this blameless era flies .^ 
While violence and craft succeed. 
Unfair design, and ruthless deed! 



BRITISH POEMS 

Soon would the vine his wounds deplore. 
And yield her purple gifts no more; 
Oh soon, erased from every grove 
Were Delia's name, and Strephon's love. 

No more those bowers might Strephon see. 
Where first he fondly gazed on thee; 
No more those beds of flowerets find 
Which for thy charming brows he twined. 

Each wayward passion soon would tear 
His bosom, now so void of care. 
And when they left his ebbing vein 
What but insipid age remain.^ 

Then mourn not the decrees of Fate 
That gave his life so short a date; 
And I will join thy tenderest sighs 
To think that youth so swiftly flies. 



THE SCHOOLMISTRESS 

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, 
Emblem right meet of decency does yield: 
Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trow, 
As is the harebell that adorns the field; 
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield 
Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined, 
With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled; 
And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined, 
A.nd fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind. 

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown; 

A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air; 

'T was simple russet, but it was her own; 

'T was her own country bred the flock so fair! 

'T was her own labour did the fleece prepare; 



WILLIAM SHENSTONE 237 

And, sooth to say, her pupils ranged around. 
Through pious awe, did term it passing rare; 
For they in gaping wonderment abound, 
And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground. 

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, 
Ne pompous title did debauch her ear; 
Goody, good woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth. 
Or dame, the sole additions she did hear; 
Yet these she challenged, these she held right dear; 
Ne would esteem him act as mought behove. 
Who should not honoured eld with these revere; 
For never title yet so mean could prove. 
But there was eke a mind which did that title love. 

One ancient hen she took delight to feed. 
The plodding pattern of the busy dame; 
Which, ever and anon, impelled by need. 
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came; 
Such favour did her past deportment claim; 
And, if neglect had lavished on the ground 
Fragment of bread, she would collect the same; 
For well she knew, and quaintly could expound. 
What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found. 

Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could speak. 
That in her garden sipped the silvery dew; 
Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy streak. 
But herbs for use and physick, not a few. 
Of grey renown, within those borders grew: 
The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme, 
Fresh baum, and marygold of chearful hue: 
The lowly gill, that never dares to climb; 
And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme. 

[From the poem of the same title.I 



238 BRITISH POEMS 

WILLIAM COLLINS [1721-1759] 

ODE WRITTEN IN 1746 

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest 
By all their country's wishes blest! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold. 
Returns to deck their hallowed mould. 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung, 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung: 
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey. 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 
And Freedom shall awhile repair 
To dwell a weeping hermit there! 

DIRGE 1 

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, 

And rifle all the breathing spring. 

No wailing ghost shall dare appear 
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; 

But shepherd lads assembled here, 
And melting virgins own their love. 

No withered witch shall here be seen; 

No goblins lead their nightly crew: 
The female fays shall haunt the green. 

And dress thy grave with pearly dew! 

1 Cf. Shakspere's Dirge, page 96. 



WILLIAM COLLINS 239 

The redbreast oft, at evening hours. 

Shall kindly lend his little aid. 
With hoary moss, and gathered flowers, 

To deck the ground where thou art laid. 

When howling winds and beating rain. 

In tempests shake the sylvan cell; 
Or 'midst the chase, on every plain, 

The tender thought on thee shall dwell; 

Each lonely scene shall thee restore; 

For thee the tear be duly shed; 
Beloved till life can charm no more. 

And mourned till pity's self be dead. 



ODE TO EVENING 

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song. 

May hope, chaste Eve! to soothe thy modest ear 

Like thy own solemn springs. 

Thy springs and dying gales: 

O Nymph reserved! while now the bright-hair'd Sun 
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts 

With brede ethereal wove 

O'erhang his wavy bed 

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat 
With short, slu-ill shriek, flits by on leathern wing. 

Or where the beetle winds 

His small but sullen horn 

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum — 

Now teach me, Maid composed! 

To breathe some softened strain 

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale. 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit. 

As musing slow I hail 

Thy genial loved return. 



240 BRITISH POEMS 

For when thy folding star arising shows 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 

The fragrant Hours, and Elves 

Who slept in flowers the day, 

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, 
And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still. 

The pensive Pleasures sweet. 

Prepare thy shadowy car. 

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; 
Or find some ruin, 'midst its dreary dells. 

Whose walls more awful nod 

By thy religious gleams. 

Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, 
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut 

That, from the mountain's side, 

Views wilds, and swelling floods, 

And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires; 
And hears their simple bell; and marks o'er all 

Thy dewy fingers draw 

The gradual dusky veil. 

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont^ 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! 

While Summer loves to sport 

Beneath thy lingering light; 

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; 
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air. 

Affrights thy shrinking train. 

And rudely rends thy robes; 

So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed. 
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, 

Thy gentlest influence own. 

And love thv fav'rite name! 



WILLIAM COLLINS 241 

ODE TO LIBERTY 

Strophe 

Who shall awake the Spartan fife, 

And call in solemn sounds to life, 
The youths, whose locks divinely spreading, 

Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue. 
At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding, 

Applauding freedom loved of old to view? 
What new Alcaeus, fancy-blest. 
Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest. 

At wisdom's shrine awhile its flame concealing, 
(What place so fit to seal a deed renown'd?) 

Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing. 
It leaped in glory forth, and dealt her prompted wound! 
O goddess, in that feeling hour. 
When most its sounds would court thy ears, 

Let not my shell's misguided power 
E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears. 
No, freedom, no, I will not tell 
How Rome, before thy weeping face, 
With heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell. 
Pushed by a wild and artless race 
From off its wide ambitious base. 
When time his northern sons of spoil awoke, 

And all the blended work of strength and grace, 

With many a rude repeated stroke. 
And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments broke. 



Efode 

Yet, even where'er the least appeared, 
Th' admiring world thy hand revered; 
Still 'midst the scattered states around. 
Some remnants of her strength were found; 
They saw, by what escaped the storm. 
How wondrous rose her perfect form; 



242 BRITISH POEMS 

How in the great, the labour'd whole, 
Each mighty master pour'd his soul! 
For sunny Florence, seat of art. 
Beneath her vines preserved a part, 
Till they, whom science loved to name, 
(O who could fear it?) quench'd her flame. 
And lo, an humbler relic laid 
In jealous Pisa's olive shade! 
See small Marino joins the theme, 
Tho' least, not last in thy esteem: 
Strike, louder strike the ennobling strings 
To those, whose merchant sons were kings; 
To him, who, deck'd with pearly pride. 
In Adria weds his green-haired bride; 
Hail, port of glory, wealth, and pleasure. 
Ne'er let me change this Lydian measure: 
Nor e'er her former pride relate. 
To sad Liguria's bleeding state. 
Ah no! more pleased thy haunts I seek. 
On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak: 
(Where, when the favour'd of thy choice. 
The daring archer heard thy voice; 
Forth from his eyrie roused in dread, 
The ravening eagle northward fled;) 
Or dwell in willow'd meads more near, 
With those to whom thy stork is dear: 
Those whom the rod of Alva bruised. 
Whose crown a British queen refused! 
The magic works, thou feel'st the strains. 
One holier name alone remains; 
The perfect spell shall then avail. 
Hail, nymph, adored by Britain, hail! 

Antistropke 

Beyond the measure vast of thought. 
The works the wizard Time has wrought! 
The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story. 
Saw Britain linked to his now adverse strand. 



WILLIAM COLLINS 243 

No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary, 
He passed with unwet feet thro' all our land. 

To the blown Baltic then, they say. 

The wild waves found another way, 
Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains rounding; 

Till all the banded west at once 'gan rise, 
A wide wild storm e'en nature's self confounding, 

Withering her giant sons with strange uncouth surprise. 

This pillared earth so firm and wide. 
By winds and inward labours torn, 

In thunders dread was pushed aside. 

And down the shouldering billows borne. 
And see, like gems, her laughing train. 

The little isles on every side, 
Mona, once hid from those who search the main, 

Where thousand elfin shapes abide. 
And Wight who checks the westering tide. 

For thee consenting heaven has each bestowed, 
A fair attendant on her sovereign pride: 

To thee this blest divorce she owed. 
For thou hast made her vales thy loved, thy last abode. 

Second Epode 

Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile, 
'Midst the green navel of our isle. 
Thy shrine in some religious wood, 
O soul-enforcing goddess, stood! 
There oft the painted native's feet 
Were wont thy form celestial meet: 
Tho' now with hopeless toil we trace 
Time's backward rolls, to find its place; 
Whether the fiery-tressed Dane, 
Or Roman's self, o'erturned the fane, 
Or in what heaven-left age it fell, 
'Twere hard for modern song to tell. 
Yet still, if truth those beams infuse. 
Which guide at once, and charm the Muse, 
Beyond yon braided clouds that lie. 
Paving the light-embroidered sky. 



244 BRITISH POEMS 

Amidst the bright paviHoned plains. 
The beauteous model still remains. 
There, happier than in islands blest. 
Or bowers by spring or Hebe drest, 
The chiefs who fill our Albion's story. 
In warlike weeds, retired in glory, 
Hear their consorted Druids sing 
Their triumphs to the immortal string. 

How may the poet now unfold 
What never tongue or numbers told.'^ 
How learn, delighted and amazed. 
What hands unknown that fabric raised? 
Even now before his favoured eyes. 
In Gothic pride, it seems to rise! 
Yet Grsecia's graceful orders join. 
Majestic through the mixed design: 
The secret builder knew to choose 
Each sphere-found gem of richest hues; 
Whate'er heaven's purer mould contains. 
When nearer suns emblaze its veins; 
There on the walls the patriot's sight 
May ever hang with fresh delight. 
And, graved with some prophetic rage, 
Read Albion's fame through every age. 

Ye forms divine, ye laureat band. 
That near her inmost altar stand! 
Now soothe her to her blissful train 
Blithe concord's social form to gain; 
Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep 
Even anger's bloodshot eyes in sleep; 
Before whose breathing bosom's balm 
Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm: 
Her let our sires and matrons hoar 
W^elcome to Britain's ravaged shore; 
Our youths, enamoured of the fair. 
Play with the tangles of her hair. 
Till, in one loud applauding sound. 
The nations shout to her around, 
O how supremely art thou blest. 
Thou, ladv, thou shalt rule the west! 



THOMAS GRAY 245 



THOMAS GRAY [1716-1771] 

ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN 
A TUB OF GOLD FISHES 

'TwAS on a lofty vase's side, 
Where China's gayest art had dyed 
The azure flowers that blow. 
Demurest of the tabby kind 
The pensive Sehna, recHned, 
Gazed on the lake below. 

Her conscious tail her joy declared: 
The fair round face, the snowy beard. 
The velvet of her paws, 
Her coat that with the tortoise vies. 
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes- 
She saw, and purr'd applause. 

Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide 
Two angel forms were seen to glide. 
The Genii of the stream: 
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue 
Through richest purple, to the view 
Betray'd a golden gleam. 

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: 

A whisker first, and then a claw 

With many an ardent wish 

She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize- 

What female heart can gold despise.' 

What Cat's averse to fish.? 

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent 
Again she stretch'd, again she bent. 
Nor knew the gulf between — 
Malignant Fate sat by and smiled— 
The slippery verge her feet beguiled; 
She tumbled headlong in! 



246 BRITISH POEMS 

Eight times emerging from the flood 
She mew'd to every watery God 
Some speedy aid to send: — 
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd, 
Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard — 
A favourite has no friend! 

From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived 
Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, 
And be with caution bold: 
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes 
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize, 
Nor all that glisters, gold! 



ODE ON THE SPRING 

Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, 

Fair Venus' train appear. 
Disclose the long-expecting flowers. 

And wake the purple year! 
The Attic warbler pours her throat, 
Responsive to the cuckow's note. 

The untaught harmony of spring: 
While, whisp'ring pleasure as they fly, 
Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky 

Their gather'd fragrance fling. 

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch 

A broader browner shade; 
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech 

O'er-canopies the glade 
Beside some water's rushy brink 
With me the Muse shall sit, and think 

(At ease reclin'd in rustic state) 
How vain the ardour of the Crowd, 
How low, how little are the Proud, 

How indigent the Great! 



THOMAS GRAY 247 

Still is the toiling hand of Care: 

The panting herds repose: 
Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air 

The busy murmur glows! 
The insect youth are on the wing, 
Eager to taste the honied spring. 

And float amid the liquid noon: 
Some lightly o'er the current skim, 
Some shew their gaily-gilded trim 

Quick-glancing to the sun. 

To Contemplation's sober eye 

Such is the race of Man: 
And they that creep, and they that fly. 

Shall end where they began. 
Alike the Busy and the Gay 
But flutter thro' life's little day, 

In fortune's varying colours drest: 
Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance, 
Or chill'd by age, their airy dance 

They leave, in dust to rest. 

Methinks I hear in accents low 

The sportive kind reply: 
"Poor moralist! and what art thou? 

A solitary fly! 
Thy Joys no glittering female meets. 
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets. 

No painted plumage to display: 
On hasty wings thy youth is flown; 
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone — 

We frolick, while 'tis May." 



248 BRITISH POEMS 

ELEGY 

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 

The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day. 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea. 

The plowman homeward plods his weary way. 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; 

Save that from 3'onder ivy-mantled tower 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such, as wandering near her secret bower. 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap. 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid. 

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 
. The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care: 

No children run to lisp their sire's return. 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 

How jocund did they drive their team afield! 

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 



THOMAS GRAY 249 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile. 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of powder, 

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault. 
If Memory o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise. 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 

Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust. 
Or Flattery sooth the dull cold ear of Death.? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; 

Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage. 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene. 

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood; 

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. 
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 



250 BRITISH POEMS 

Til' applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation's eyes. 

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. 
And sliut the gates of mercy on mankind, 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. 
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; 

Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet even these bones from insult to protect, 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck't, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply: 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies. 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 

Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires. 



THOMAS GRAY 251 

For thee, who mindful of the unhonour'd Dead 
Dost in these Hnes their artless tale relate, 

If chance, by lonely Contemplation led. 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 

Haply some hoary-headed Swain may sa}^ 
Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; 

Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn. 

Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill. 
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; 

Another came; nor yet beside the rill. 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 

"The next with dirges due in sad array 

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne, — 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown; 

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth 
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send: 
He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear. 

He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose. 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



252 BRITISH POEMS 

THE BARD' 

A PINDARIC ODE 



Strophe 

"RriN seize thee, ruthless King! 
Confusion on thy banners wait, 
Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing 
They mock the air with idle state. 
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, 
Nor e'en thy virtues. Tyrant, shall avail 
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears. 
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!" 

Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride 
Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay. 
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side 
He wound with toilsome march his long array. 
Stout Gloster stood aghast in speechless trance; 
To arms ! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance. 

Antistrophe 

On a rock, whose haughty brow 
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood. 
Robed in the sable garb of woe. 
With haggard eyes the Poet stood 
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair 
Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air) 
And with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire, 
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: 

"Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave, 
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! 
O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave, 
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; 
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, 
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. 

1 Founded on the tradition that Edward I, having conquered Wales, ordered that 
the bards be put to death. 



THOMAS GRAY 253 



Ejpode 

"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue. 
That hush'd the stormy main; 
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: 
Mountains, ye mourn in vain 
Modred, whose magic song 

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head. 
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, 
Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale: 
Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail; 
The famish'd Eagle screams, and passes by. 

Dear lost companions of my tuneful art. 
Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes. 
Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart. 
Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — 

No more I weep. They do not sleep. 
On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, 
I see them sit, they linger yet. 
Avengers of their native land: 
With me in dreadful harmony they join. 
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line: 



II 

Stro'phe 

"Weave the warp, and weave the woof, 
The winding sheet of Edward's race. 
Give ample room, and verge enough 
The characters of hell to trace. 
Mark the year, and mark the night. 
When Severn shall re-echo with affright 
The shrieks of death, through Berklej^'s roofs that ring. 
Shrieks of an agonizing King! 
She- Wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs. 
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled Mate, 
From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs 



254 BRITISH POEMS 

The scourge of Heav'n. What Terrors round him wait! 
Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, 
And Sorrow's faded form, and SoHtude behind. 

i 
Antistrophe 

"Mighty Victor, mighty Lord, 
Low on his funeral couch he lies! 
No pitying heart, no eye, afford 
A tear to grace his obsequies. 

Is the sable Warrior fled.^ 
Thy son is gone. He rests among the Dead. 
The Swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born? 
Gone to salute the rising Morn. 
Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows, 
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm 
In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes; 
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; 
Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, 
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening-prey. 

Epode 

" Fill high the sparkling bowl. 
The rich repast prepare; 

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast. 
Close by the regal chair 
Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 
A baleful smile upon their baffled Guest. 

Heard ye the din of battle bray, 
Lance to lance, and horse to horse? 
Long Years of havoc urge their destin'd course. 
And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. 
Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame. 
With many a foul and midnight murther fed. 
Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame, 
And spare the meek Usurper's holy head. 
Above, below, the rose of snow, 
Twin'd with her blushing foe, we spread: 



THOMAS GRAY 255 

The bristled Boar in infant-gore 

Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 

Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom 

Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. 

Ill 

Strophe 

"'Edward, lo! to sudden fate 
(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun). 
Half of thy heart we consecrate. 
(The web is wove. The work is done.) ' 

Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn 
Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn! 
In yon bright track, that fires the w^estern skies, 
They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 

But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height 
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll.^ 
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight. 
Ye unborn Ages, crov/d not on my soul! 
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. 
All-hail, ye genuine Kings, Britannia's Issue, hail! 

Antistrophe 

"Girt with many a baron bold 
Sublime their starry fronts they rear; 
And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old 
In bearded majesty, appear. 
In the midst a Form divine! 
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line; 
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, 
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. 
What strings symphonious tremble in the air. 
What strains of vocal transport round her play! 
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin,^ hear; 
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings. 
Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour'd wings. 

1 A noted Welsh bard of the 6th century. 



256 BRITISH POEMS 



Epode 



"The verse adorn again 
Fierce War, and faithful Love, 
And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. 
In buskin'd measures move 
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, 
With Horror, Tyrant of the throbbing breast. 
A Voice, as of the Cherub-Choir, 
Gales from blooming Eden bear; 
And distant warblings lessen on my ear, 
That lost in long futurity expire. 

Fond impious Man, think'st thou, yon sanguine cloud. 
Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the Orb of day.^ 
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood. 
And warms the nations with redoubled ray. 

Enough for me: With joy I see 
The different doom our Fates assign. 
Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care, 
To triumph, and to die, are mine." — 

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height 
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH [1728-1774] 

SONG 

When lovely woman stoops to folly. 
And finds too late that men betray, 

What charm can soothe her melancholy.'^ 
What art can wash her guilt away.'' 

The only art her guilt to cover. 
To hide her shame from every eye. 

To give repentance to her lover. 
And wring his bosom, is — to die. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH 257 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain; 

Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain. 

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 

And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed: 

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please. 

How often have I loitered o'er thy green. 

Where humble happiness endeared each scene! 

How often have I paused on every charm. 

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm. 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill. 

The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill. 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade 

For talking age and whispering lovers made! 

How often have I blest the coming day. 

When toil remitting lent its turn to play. 

And all the village train, from labour free. 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree. 

While many a pastime circled in the shade. 

The young contending as the old surveyed; 

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground. 

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. 

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired. 

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired; 

The dancing pair that simply sought renown 

By holding out to tire each other down; 

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 

While secret laughter tittered round the place; 

The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love. 

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove: 

These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these. 

With sweet succession, taught even toil to please: 

These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed: 

These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. 

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn. 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn 



258 BRITISH POEMS 

Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green: 
One only master grasps the whole domain, 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; 
Along the glades, a solitary guest. 
The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest; 
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies. 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries; 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; 
And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand. 
Far. far away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay: 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made: 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride. 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began. 
When every rood of ground maintained its man; 
For him light labour spread her wholesome store, 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more: 
His best companions, innocence and health; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain; 
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose. 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, 
And every want to opulence allied, 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom. 
Those calm desires that asked but little room. 
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene. 
Lived in each look, and brightened all the green; 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH 259 

Here, as I take my solitary rounds 

Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, 

And, manj^ a year elapsed, return to view 

Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 

Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. 

Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; 
To husband our life's taper at the close. 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose: 
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still. 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill. 
Around my fire an evening group to draw. 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; 
And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue 
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine, 
How happy he who crowns in shades like these 
A youth of labour with an age of ease; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to flj^! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep. 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; 
No surly porter stands in guilty state. 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end. 
Angels around befriending Virtue's friend; 
Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be past! 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. 
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came softened from below; 



260 BRITISH POEMS 1 

The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, 

The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, | 

The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, i 

The playful children just let loose from school, ] 

The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, \ 

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; — ! 

These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 

And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 

But now the sounds of population fail, i 

No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale. 

No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, 

For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 

All but yon widowed, solitary thing. 

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring: i 

She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, j 

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, * 

To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn. 

To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; 

She only left of all the harmless train. 

The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, I 

And still where many a garden flower grows wild; 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, I 

The village preacher's modest mansion rose. \ 

A man he was to all the country dear, < 

And passing rich with forty pounds a year; ' 

Remote from towns he ran his godly race, ' 

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place; I 

Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, , 

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; 
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize. 
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train; 
He chid their wanderings but relieved their pain: 
The long-remembered beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud. 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. 
Sat by the fire, and talked the night away, i 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH 261 

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow. 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side; 
But in his duty prompt at every call. 
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies. 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed. 
The reverend champion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise. 
And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace. 
His looks adorned the venerable place; 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man. 
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; 
Even children followed with endearing wile. 
And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest; 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest: 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay. 
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule. 
The village master taught his little school. 



262 BRITISH POEMS 

A man severe he was, and stern to view; 

I knew him well, and every truant knew; 

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 

The day's disasters in his morning face; 

Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; 

Full well the busy whisper circling round 

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. 

Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 

The love he bore to learning was in fault; 

The village all declared how much he knew: 

'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too; 

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage. 

And even the story ran that he could gauge; 

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill. 

For, even tho' vanquished, he could argue still; 

While words of learned length and thundering sound 

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; 

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 

That one small head could carry all he knew. 

But past is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. 
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high. 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired. 
Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil retired. 
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound. 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlour splendours of that festive place: 
The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor. 
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; 
The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; 
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, 
With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay; 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH 263 

Vain transitory splendours! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear. 
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest. 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 
Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play. 
The soul adopts, and owns their first born sway; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed — 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain. 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; 
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
The rich man's joy increase, the poor's decay, 
'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and an happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore. 
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; 
Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound. 
And rich men flock from all the world around. 
Yet count our gains! This wealth is but a name 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 



264 BRITISH POEMS 

Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 

Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds: 

The robe that wraps his Hmbs in silken sloth 

Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth; 

His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 

Indignant spurns the cottage from the green: 

Around the world each needful product flies. 

For all the luxuries the world supplies; 

While thus the land adorned for pleasure all 

In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female unadorned and plain. 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. 
Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies. 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; 
But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, 
When time advances, and when lovers fail. 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless. 
In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed: 
In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed. 
But verging to decline, its splendours rise. 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; 
While, scourged by famine from the smiling land 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band. 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 
The country blooms — a garden and a grave. 

Where then, ah! where, shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride .^ 
If to some common's fenceless limits strayed. 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide. 
And even the bare-worn common is denied. 

If to the city sped — what waits him there .^ 
To see profusion that he must not share; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; 
To see those joys the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH 265 

Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display. 

There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 

The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign 

Here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous train: 

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square. 

The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 

Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! 

Sure these denote one universal joy! 

Are these thy serious thoughts? — Ah, turn thine eyes 

Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 

She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. 

Has wept at tales of innocence distrest; 

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn: 

Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled. 

Near her betrayer's door she lays her head. 

And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower. 

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour. 

When idly first, ambitious of the town. 

She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn, — thine, the loveliest train, — 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain.? 
Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! 

Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene. 
Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
Far different there from all that charmed before 
The various terrors of that horrid shore; 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray. 
And fiercely shed intolerable day; 
Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing. 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; 
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned. 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
And savage men more murderous still than they; 



266 BRITISH POEMS 

While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
Far different these from every former scene, 
The cooling brook, the grassy vested green. 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove. 
That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that parting day. 
That called them from their native walks away; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last. 
And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main. 
And shuddering still to face the distant deep. 
Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. 
The good old sire the first prepared to go 
To new found worlds, and wept for others' woe; 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. 
The fond companion of his helpless years. 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. 
And left a lover's for a father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. 
And blest the cot where every pleasure rose. 
And kist her thoughtless babes with many a tear 
And claspt them close, in sorrow doubly dear. 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 

O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree. 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy. 
Diffuse their pleasure only to destroy! 
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
Boast of a florid vigour not their own. 
At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe; 
Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, 
Down, down, they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

Even now the devastation is begun, 
And half the business of destruction done: 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH 267 

Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 

I see the rural virtues leave the land. 

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail. 

That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 

Downward they move, a melancholy band, 

Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 

Contented Toil, and hospitable Care, 

And kind connubial tenderness, are there; 

And piety with wishes placed above, 

And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid. 

Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; 

Unfit in these degenerate times of shame 

To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; 

Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried. 

My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; 

Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe. 

That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; 

Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, 

Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! 

Farewell, and oh! where'er thy voice be tried. 

On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side. 

Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, 

Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 

Still let thy voice, prevailing over time. 

Redress the rigours of the inclement clime; 

Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; 

Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; 

Teach him, that states of native strength possest, 

Tho' very poor, may still be very blest; 

That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay. 

As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away; 

While self-dependent power can time defy. 

As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 



BRITISH POEMS 



JANE ELLIOT [1727-1805] 

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST 

A Lament for Flodden. 

I've heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking, 
Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn of day; 
But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning^; 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

At bughts^ in the morning nae blythe lads are scorning^ 
The lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae; 
Nae daffing'', nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing, 
Ilk ane lifts her leglin""', and hies her away. 

In hairst^, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, 
The bandsters^ are lyart,^ and runkled and gra}-; 
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching^ — 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies^^ are roaming 
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; 
But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie — 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 



Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border! 
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; 
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, 
The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay. 

We'll hear nae more lilting at our ewe-milking, 
Women and bairns are heartless and wae; 
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning, 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

a grass path through corn-fields for the use of cattle. ? sheep-pens. 

teasing ^ jesting. ^ paJI. 6 harvest. 

men who bind up the sheaves. ^ hoary. ^ coaxing. '" strapping lads. 



THOMAS WARTON 2G9 

THOMAS WARTON [1728-1790] 

DEATH OF KING ARTHUR 

O'er Cornwall's cliffs the tempest roared. 
High the screaming sea-mew soared; 
On Tintagell's topmost tower 
Darksome fell the sleety shower; 
Round the rough castle shrilly sung 
The whirling blast, and wildly flung 
On each tall rampart's thundering side 
The surges of the tumbling tide: 
When Arthur ranged his red-cross ranks 
On conscious Camlan's crimsoned banks: 
By Mordred's faithless guile decreed 
Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed! 
Yet in vain a paynim foe 
Armed with fate the mighty blow; 
For when he fell an Elfin Queen 
All in secret, and unseen, 
O'er the fainting hero threw 
Her mantle of ambrosial blue; 

And bade her spirits bear him far. 

In Merlin's agate-axled car, 

To her green isle's enamelled steep 

Far in the navel of the deep. 

O'er his wounds she sprinkled dew 

From flowers that in Arabia grew: 

On a rich enchanted bed 

She pillowed his majestic head; 

O'er his brow, with whispers bland. 

Thrice she waved an opiate wand; 

And to soft music's airy sound. 

Her magic curtains closed around. 

There, renewed the vital spring, 

Again he reigns a mighty king; 

And many a fair and fragrant clime. 

Blooming in immortal prime. 



270 BRITISH POEMS 

By gales of Eden ever fanned, 
Owns the monarch's high command: 
Thence to Britain shall return 
(If right prophetic rolls I learn), 
Borne on Victory's spreading plume, 
His ancient sceptre to resume; 
Once more, in old heroic pride, 
His barbed courser to bestride; 
His Knightly table to restore, 
And brave the tournaments of yore. 

[From The Grave of King Abthuh.] 



WILLIAM COWPER [1731-1800] 

EPITAPH ON A HARE 

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, 
Nor swifter greyhound follow. 

Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, 
Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo; 

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind. 
Who, nursed with tender care, 

And to domestic bounds confined. 
Was still a wild Jack hare. 

Though duly from my hand he took 

His pittance every night, 
He did it with a jealous look, 

And, when he could, would bite. 

His diet was of wheaten bread, 
And milk, and oats, and straw; 

Thistles, or lettuces instead. 
With sand to scour his maw. 



WILLIAM COWPER 271 

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, 

On pippins' russet peel, 
And, when his juicy salads failed, 

Sliced carrot pleased him well. 

A Turkey carpet was his lawn. 

Whereon he loved to bound. 
To skip and gambol like a fawn, 

And swing his rump around. 

His frisking was at evening hours. 

For then he lost his fear. 
But most before approaching showers. 

Or when a storm drew near. 

Eight years and five round-rolling moons 

He thus saw steal awa}^ 
Dozing out all his idle noons, 

And every night at play. 

I kept him for his humour's sake, 

For he would oft beguile 
My heart of thoughts that made it ache. 

And force me to a smile. 

But now beneath this walnut shade 

He finds his long last home. 
And waits, in snug concealment laid, 

Till gentler Puss shall come. 

He, still more aged, feels the shocks 

From which no care can save. 
And, partner once of Tiney's box, 

Must soon partake his grave. 



272 BRITISH POEMS 



EVENING IN WINTER 



Oh, Winter, ruler of the inverted year, 
Thy scattered hair with sleet-Hke ashes filled. 
Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks 
Fringed with a beard made white with other snows 
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds. - 
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
A sliding car indebted to no wheels. 
But urged by storms along the slippery way, — 
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, 
And dreaded as thou art. Thou hold'st the sun 
A prisoner in the yet undawning East, 
Shortening his journey between morn and noon, 
And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, 
Down to the rosy west; but kindly still 
Compensating his loss with added hours 
Of social converse and instructive ease. 
And gathering at short notice in one group 
The family dispersed, and fixing thought 
Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. 
I crown the king of intimate delights. 
Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness. 
And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours 
Of long uninterrupted evening know. 
No rattling wheels stop short before these gates; 
No powdered, pert proficients in the art 
Of sounding an alarm, assault these doors 
Till the street rings; no stationary' steeds 
Cough their own knell, while heedless of the sound 
The silent circle fan themselves, and quake: 
But here the needle plies its busy task, 
The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower. 
Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn. 
Unfolds its bosom; buds and leaves and sprigs 
And curly tendrils, gracefully disposed. 
Follow the nimble finger of the fair; 



WILLIAM COWPER 273 

A wreath that cannot fade, of flowers that blow 

With most success when all besides decay. 

The poet's or historian's page, by one 

Made vocal for the amusement of the rest; 

The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds 

The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out; 

And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct. 

And in the charming strife triumphant still; 

Beguile the night, and set a keener edge 

On female industry; the threaded steel 

Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. 

The volume closed, the customary rites 

Of the last meal commence: a Roman meal. 

Such as the mistress of the world once found 

Delicious, when her patriots of high note. 

Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors. 

And under an old oak's domestic shade, 

Enjoyed — spare feast! — a radish and an egg. 

Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull. 

Nor such as with a frown forbids the play 

Of fancy, or prescribes the sound of mirth; 

Nor do we madly, like an impious world. 

Who deem religion frenzy, and the God 

That made them an intruder on their joys. 

Start at his awful name, or deem his praise 

A jarring note; themes of a graver tone 

Exciting oft our gratitude and love. 

While we retrace with memory's pointing wand 

That calls the past to our exact review, 

The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare, 

The disappointed foe, deliverance found 

Unlooked for, life preserved and peace restored. 

Fruits of omnipotent eternal love: — 

Oh, evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed 

The Sabine bard. Oh, evenings, I reply. 

More to be prized and coveted than yours, 

As more illumined and with nobler truths. 

That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy. 

[From Book IV. The Task.] 



274 BRITISH POEMS 



TO MARY 

The twentieth year is well-nigh past, 
Since first our sky was overcast; 
Ah, would that this might be the last! 

My Mary! 

Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
I see thee daily weaker grow; 
'Twas my distress that brought thee low, 

My Mary! 

Thy needles, once a shining store. 
For my sake restless heretofore. 
Now rust disused, and shine no more. 

My Mary! 

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
The same kind oflSce for me still. 
Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 

My Mary! 

But well thou playedst the housewife's part, 
And all thy threads with magic art 
Have wound themselves about this heart. 

My Mary! 

Thy indistinct expressions seem 
Like language uttered in a dream; 
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme. 

My Mary! 

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright. 
Are still more lovely in my sight 
Than golden beams of orient light. 

My Mary! 

For, could I view nor them nor thee, 
What sight worth seeing could I see? 
The sun would rise in vain for me. 

My Mary! 



WILLIAM COWPER 275 

Partakers of thy sad decline, 
Thy hands their little force resign; 
Yet, gently prest, press gently mine, 

My Mary! 

Such feebleness of limbs thou provest. 
That now at every step thou movest 
Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest, 

My Mary! 

And still to love, though prest with ill. 
In wintry age to feel no chill. 
With me is to be lovely still, 

My Mary! 

But ah! by constant heed I know. 
How oft the sadness that I show 
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe. 

My Mary! 

And should my future lot be cast 
With much resemblance of the past. 
Thy worn-out heart will break at last. 

My Mary! 



ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 

Oh, that those lips had language! Life has passed 
W^ith me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine— thy own sweet smile I see, 
The same that oft in childhood solaced me; 
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blessed be the art that can immortalize, 
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
To quench it) here shines on me still the same. 

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 
O welcome guest, though unexpected here! 



276 BRITISH POEMS 

Who bidst me honour with an artless song, 

Affectionate, a mother lost so long, 

I will obey, not willingly alone. 

But gladly, as the precept were her own: 

And, while that face renews my filial grief. 

Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief. 

Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 

A momentary dream that thou art she. 

My mother! when I learnt that thou wast dead. 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? 
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
Wretch even then life's journey just begun? 
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss: 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile! It answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away. 
And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! 
But was it such? — It was.— Where thou art gone 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
The parting word shall pass my lips no more! 
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, 
Oft gave me promise of th}^ quick return. 
What ardently I wished I long believed. 
And, disappointed still, was still deceived. 
By expectation every day beguiled, 
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went. 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
I learned at last submission to my lot; 
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, 
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; 
And where the gardener Robin, day by day. 
Drew me to school along the public way, 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped. 



WILLIAM COWPER 277 

'Tis now become a history little known, 

That once we called the pastoral house our own. 

Short-lived possession! but the record fair 

That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there. 

Still outlives many a storm that has effaced 

A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made. 

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; 

Thy morning bounties ere I left my home. 

The biscuit, or confectionery plum; 

The fragrant waters on my cheek bestowed 

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed; 

All this, and more endearing still than all. 

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall. 

Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakes 

That humour interposed too often makes; 

All this still legible in memory's page. 

And still to be so to my latest age. 

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 

Such honours to thee as my numbers may; 

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere. 

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. 

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours. 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers. 
The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
I pricked them into paper with a pin 
(And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile), 
Could those few pleasant days again appear. 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? 
I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. — 
But no — what here we call our life is such 
So little to be loved, and thou so much. 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed) 
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle. 
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 



278 BRITISH POEMS 

There sits quiescent on the floods that show 

Her beauteous form reflected clear below. 

While airs impregnated with incense play 

Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; 

So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore, 

"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar." 

And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 

Of life long since has anchored by thy side. 

But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 

Always from port withheld, always distressed — 

Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest tost. 

Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost. 

And day by day some current's thwarting force 

Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 

Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he! 

That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 

My boast is not, that I deduce my birth 

From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth; 

But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 

The son of parents passed into the skies! 

And now, farewell — Time unrevoked has run 

His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. 

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 

I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again; 

To have renewed the joys that once were mine. 

Without the sin of violating thine: 

And, while the wings of Fancy still are free. 

And I can view this mimic show of thee. 

Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 

Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 



LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE 

Toll for the Brave! 
The brave that are no more! 
All sunk beneath the wave 
Fast by their native shore! 



WILLIAM COWPER 279 

Eight hundred of the brave 
Whose courage well was tried, 
Had made the vessel heel 
And laid her on her side. 

A land-breeze shook the shrouds 
And she was overset; 
Down went the Royal George, 
With all her crew complete. 

Toll for the brave! 
Brave Kempenfelt is gone; 
His last sea-fight is fought. 
His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle; 
No tempest gave the shock; 
She sprang no fatal leak. 
She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was in its sheath. 
His fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down 
With twice four hundred men. 

— Weigh the vessel up 
Once dreaded by our foes! 
And mingle with our cup 
The tears that England owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound, 

And she may float again 

Full charged with England's thunder. 

And plough the distant main: 

But Kempenfelt is gone, 

His victories are o'er; 

And he and his eight hundred 

Shall plough the wave no more- 



280 BRITISH POEMS 

THOMAS CHATTERTON [1752^1770] 

MYNSTRELLES SONGE 

O! SYNGE iintoe mie roundelaie, 
O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee, 
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie, 
Lycke a reynynge^ ryyer bee; 
Mie love ys dedde, 
Gon to hys death-bedde, 
Al under the wyllowe tree. 

Blacke hys cryne"'' as the wyntere nyghte, 
Whyte hys rode^ as the sommer snowe, 
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte, 
Gale he lyes ynne the grave belowe; 

Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note, 
Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee, 
Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote, 
O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: 

Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, 
In the briered delle belowe; 
Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge. 
To the nyghte-mares as heie goe; 

See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; 
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude; 
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, 
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude; 

Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, 
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde, 
Nee one hallie Seyncte to save 
Al the celness of a mayde. 

' running. 2 hair. ^ complexion. 



GEORGE CRABBE 281 

Wythe mie hondes I'lle dente the brieres 
Rounde his halHe corse to gre, 
Ouphante fairie lyghte youre fyres, 
Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee. 

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe & thorne, 
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie; 
Lyfe & all yttes goode I scorne, 
Daunce bie nete, or feaste bie daie. 

Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes,^ 
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. 
I die; I comme; mie true love waytes. 
Thos the damselle spake, and dyed. 
Mie love ys dedde, etc. 

[From ^LLA.] 



GEORGE CRABBE [1754-1832] 

VILLAGE LIFE 

"As Truth will paint it, and as Bards will noty 

Here, wandering long, amid these frowning fields, 
I sought the simple life that Nature yields; 
Rapine and Wrong and Fear usurped her place, 
And a bold, artful, surly, savage race; 
Who, only skilled to take the finny tribe, 
The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe, 
Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run high, 
On the tossed vessel bend their eager eye. 
Which to their coast directs its vent'rous way; 
Theirs or the ocean's miserable prey. 

As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand, 
And wait for favouring winds to leave the land; 
While still for flight the ready wing is spread: 
So waited I the favouring hour, and fled; 
Fled from these shores where guilt and famine reign, 
And cried, "Ah! hapless they who still remain: 

^ water-flags 



282 BRITISH POEMS 

Who still remain to hear the ocean roar, 
Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore; 
Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway 
Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away; 
When the sad tenant weeps from door to door, 
And begs a poor protection from the poor"! 

But these are scenes where Nature's niggard hand 
Gave a spare portion to the famished land; 
Hers is the fault, if here mankind complain 
Of fruitless toil and labour spent in vain; 
But yet in other scenes more fair in view. 
When Plenty smiles — alas! she smiles for few — 
And those who taste not, yet behold her store. 
Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore — 
The wealth around them makes them doubly poor. 
Or will you deem them amply paid in health, 
Labour's fair child, that languishes with wealth? 
Go, then! and see them rising with the sun. 
Through a long course of daily toil to run; 
See them beneath the Dog-star's raging heat. 
When the knees tremble and the temples beat; 
Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er 
The labour past, and toils to come explore; 
See them alternate suns and showers engage, 
And hoard up aches and anguish for their age; 
Through fens and marshy moors their steps pursue. 
When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew; 
Then own that labour may as fatal be 
To these thy slaves, as thine excess to thee. 

Amid this tribe too oft a manly pride 
Strives in strong toil the fainting heart to hide; 
There may you see the youth of slender frame 
Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame; 
Yet, urged along, and proudly loth to yield. 
He strives to join his fellows of the field; 
Till long-contending nature droops at last, 
Declining health rejects his poor repast. 
His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees. 
And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease. 



GEORGE CRABBE 283 

Yet grant them health, 't is not for us to tell, 
Though the head droops not, that the heart is well; 
Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare, 
Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share! 
Oh! trifle not with wants you cannot feel, 
Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal; 
Homely, not wholesome, plain, not plenteous, such 
As you who praise, would never deign to touch. 

Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease, 
Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please; 
Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share. 
Go look within, and ask if peace be there; 
If peace be his, that drooping weary sire; 
Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire; 
Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand 
Turns on the wretched hearth the expiring brand. 

Nor yet can Time itself obtain for these 
Life's latest comforts, due respect and ease; 
For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age 
Can with no cares except its own engage; 
Who, propped on that rude staff, looks up to see 
The bare arms broken from the withering tree. 
On which, a boy, he climbed the loftiest bough, 
Then his first joy, but his sad emblem now. 

He once was chief in all the rustic trade; 
His steady hand the straightest furrow made; 
Full many a prize he won, and still is proud 
To find the triumphs of his youth allowed; 
A transient pleasure sparkles in his eyes, 
He hears and smiles, then thinks again and sighs; 
For now he journeys to his grave in pain; 
The rich disdain him; nay, the poor disdain: 
Alternate masters now their slave command. 
Urge the weak efforts of his feeble hand, 
And, when his age attempts its task in vain. 
With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain. 

Oft may you see him, when he tends the sheep. 
His winter charge, beneath the hillock weep; 
Oft hear him murmur to the winds that blow 
O'er his white locks and bury them in snow. 



284 BRITISH POEMS 

When, roused by rage and muttering in the morn, 
He mends the broken hedge with icy thorn: — 

"Why do I live, when I desire to be 
At once from life and life's long labour free? 
Like leaves in spring, the young are blown away, 
Without the sorrows of a slow decay; 
I, like yon withered leaf, remain behind, 
Nipped by the frost, and shivering in the wind; 
There it abides till younger buds come on 
As I, now all my fellow-swains are gone; 
Then from the rising generation thrust. 
It falls, like me, unnoticed to the dust. 

"These fruitful fields, these numerous flocks I see, 
Are others' gain, but killing cares to me; 
To me the children of my youth are lords, 
Cool in their looks, but hasty in their words: 
Wants of their own demand their care; and who 
Feels his own want and succours others too? 
A lonely, wretched man, in pain I go, 
None need my help, and none relieve my woe; 
Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid, 
And men forget the wretch they would not aid." 

Thus groan the old, till by disease oppressed. 
They taste a final woe, and then they rest 

Theirs is yon House that holds the parish poor. 
Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; 
There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play. 
And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; 
There children dwell who know no parents' care; 
Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there! 
Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed. 
Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed; 
Dejected widows with unheeded tears. 
And crippled age with more than childhood fears; 
The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! 
The moping idiot, and the madman gay. 

Here too the sick their final doom receive. 
Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve. 
Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow. 
Mixed with the clamors of the crowd below; 



ROBERT BURNS 285 

Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan. 

And the cold charities of man to man: 

Whose laws indeed for ruined age provide. 

And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; 

But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, 

And pride embitters what it can't deny. 

Say, ye, oppressed by some fantastic woes. 
Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose; 
Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance 
With timid eye to read the distant glance; 
Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease 
To name the nameless, ever-new, disease; 
Who with mock patience dire complaints endure 
Which real pain, and that alone, can cure; 
How would ye bear in real pain to lie. 
Despised, neglected, left alone to die? 
How would ye bear to draw your latest breath 
When all that's wretched paves the way for death? 

(From Book I, The Village.] 



ROBERT BURNS [1759-1796] 

BONIE LESLEY 

O, SAW ye bonie Lesley 

As she gaed o'er the Border? 

She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther! 

To see her is to love her, 
And love but her forever; 

For Nature made her what she is. 
And never made anither! 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley — 
Thy subjects, we before thee: 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, — 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 



286 BRITISH POEMS 

The Deil he could na seaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee: 

He'd look into thy bonie face, 
And say: "I canna wrang thee!" 

The Powers aboon will tenf^ thee. 
Misfortune sha' na steer^ thee: 

Thou'rt like themsel' sae lovely. 
That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie! 
That we may brag we hae a lass 

There's nane agam sae bonie. 



AE FOND KISS 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! 
Ae fareweel, and then forever! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee. 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him. 
While the star of hope she leaves him? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me. 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy: 
Naething could resist my Nancy! 
But to see her was to love her, 
Love but her, and love forever. 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly. 
Had we never lov'd sae blmdly. 
Never met — or never parted — 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! 
Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! 

1 tend. > molest. 



ROBERT BURNS 287 

Thine be ilka^ joy and treasure. 

Peace, Enjoyment, Love, and Pleasure! 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! 

Ae fareweel, alas, forever! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee. 

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 



MY LUVE IS LIKE A RED, RED ROSE 

O, MY luve is like a red, red rose. 
That's newly sprung in June. 

O, my luve is like the melodie 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonie lass, 

So deep in luve am I, 
And I will luve thee still, my dear. 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun! 

I will luve thee still, my dear. 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only luve. 

And fare thee weel awhile! 
And I will come again, my luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



THE BANKS O' DOON 

Ye banks and braes o' bonie Doon, 
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? 

How can ye chant, ye little birds. 
And I sae weary fu' o' care! 

' every. 



288 BRITISH POEMS 

Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 
That wantons tliro' the flowering thorn! 

Thou minds me o' departed joys. 
Departed — never to return. 

Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon 

To see the rose and woodbine twine. 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve. 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree! 
And my fause luver staw^ my rose — 

But ah! he left the thorn wi' me. 



SCOTS, WHA HAE 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led. 
Welcome to your gory bed 
Or to victorie! 

Now's the day, and now's the hour: 
See the front o' battle lour. 
See approach proud Edward's power- 
Chains and slaverie! 

Wha will be a traitor knave? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave .'^ 
Wha sae base as be a slave? 
Let him turn, and flee! 

Wha for Scotland's King and Law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw. 
Free-man stand or free-man fa'? 
Let him follow me! 

' stole. 



ROBERT BURNS 289 

By Oppression's woes and pains, 
By your sons in servile chains, 
We will drain our dearest veins 
But they shall be free! 

Lay the proud usurpers low! 
Tyrants fall in every foe! 
Liberty's in every blow! 
Let us do, or die! 



TAM GLEN 

My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie^, 
Some counsel unto me come len', 

To anger them a' is a pity; 

But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen? 

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow 
In poortith" I might mak a fen' ^. 

What care I in riches to wallow. 
If I maunna marry Tam Glen? 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, 

"Guid-day to 3'ou," — brute! he comes ben^. 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller. 

But when will he dance like Tam Glen? 

My minnie does constantly deave^ me, 
And bids me beware o' young men. 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me — 
But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him. 
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten. 

But if it's ordained I maun take him, 
O wha will I get but Tam Glen? 

* sister. ^ poverty. * shift. * into the parlour. * deafen. 



290 BRITISH POEMS 

Yestreen at the valentine's dealing. 
My heart to my mou gied a sten^: 

For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was written, "Tarn Glen!'* 

The last Halloween I was waukin^ 
My droukit^ sark-sleeve, as ye ken — 

His likeness cam up the house staukin. 
And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen! 

Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry! 

I'll gie ye my bonie black hen, 
Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 



AULD LANG SYNE 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
And never brought to mind? 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And auld lang syne! 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne. 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne! 

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, 

And surely I'll be mine. 
And we'll tak a cup of kindness yet 

For auld lang syne ! 

We twa hae run about the braes. 

And pu'd the gowans^ fine. 
But we've wander'd monie a weary fit 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

I leap. 2 watching. ' wet. * daisies. 



ROBERT BURNS 291 

We twa hae paidl'd ^ i' the burn 

Frae morning sun till dine; 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere^. 

And gie's a hand o' thine. 
And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught,^ 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 



HIGHLAND MARY 

Ye banks and braes and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie! 
There summer first unfald her robes, 

And there the langest tarry! 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary! 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk. 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom. 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasp'd her to my bosom! 
The golden hours on angel wings 

Flew o'er me and my dearie: 
For dear to me as light and life 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' monie a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender; 
And, pledging aft to meet again. 

We tore oursels asunder. 

'paddled. 2 companion. 'draught. 



BRITISH POEMS 

But O, fell Death's untimely frost, 
That nipt my flower sae early! 

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay 
That wraps my Highland Mary! 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly; 
And clos'd for ay the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly; 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER 
NEST, WITH THE PLOUGH 

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickerin brattleM 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murd'ring pattle^! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion. 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion. 

An' fellow-mortal! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! 
A daimen-icker in a thrave^ 

'S a sma' request: 
I'll get a blessing wi' the lave^. 

And never miss't! 

• hurry. - hand-stick for clearing the plough. 

* an occasional ear of corn in twenty-four sheaves. * rest. 



ROBERT BURNS 293 

Thy wee bit housle, too, in ruin! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin! 
An' naething, now, to big^ a new ane, 

O' foggage green! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 

Baith snell^ an' keen! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste. 
An' weary winter comin' fast. 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast. 

Thou thought to dwell. 
Till, crash! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble 
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! 
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble. 

But ^ house or hald ^, 
To thole^ the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch^ cauld! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane 
In proving foresight may be vain: 
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men 

Gang aft agley,^ 
An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain 

For promised joy. 

Still, thou art blest, compared wi' me! 
The present only toucheth thee: 
But, och! I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects drear! 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear! 



1 build. 2 bitter. ' without. * holding. 

6 endure. ^ hoar-frost. ' not alone. * awry. 



294 BRITISH POEMS 



JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonie brow was brent ^; 
But now your brow is beld, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo! 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither; 
And monie a cantie day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither: 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go. 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo! 



O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST 

O, WERT thou in the cauld blast 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea. 
My plaid ie to the angry airt','-^ 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee. 
Or did Misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield 3 should be my bosom. 

To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 

The desert were a Paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 

' smooth. ^ wind. ^ shelter. 



ROBERT BURNS 295 

Or were I monarch o' the globe, 
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign. 

The brightest jewel in my crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 



IS THERE FOR HONEST POVERTY 

A man's a man for a' that 

Is there for honest poverty 

That hings his head, and a' that? 
The coward-slave, we pass him by— 
We dare be poor for a' that! 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Our toils obscure, and a' that. 
The rank is but the guinea stamp. 
The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine. 

Wear hoddin-greyS and a' that? 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine— 
A man's a man for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their tinsel show, and a' that. 
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor. 
Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie^ ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that? 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word. 
He's but a cuif^ for a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that, 
The man o' independent mind. 
He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 
A marquis, duke, and a' that! 

coarse woollen cloth. ■ conceited fellow. ^ blockhead. 



296 BRITISH POEMS 

But an honest man's aboon^ his might — 
Guid faith, he mauna fa'^ that! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities and a' that, 
The pith o' sense and pride o' worth 
Are higher rank than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may 

(As come it will for a' that) 
That Sense and Worth o'er a' the earth. 
Shall bear the gree^ and a' that! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's coming yet, for a' that. 

That man to man the world o'er 

Shall brithers be for a' that. 



WILLIAM BLAKE [1757-1827] 
TO THE MUSES 

Whether on Ida's shady brow. 
Or in the chambers of the East, 

The chambers of the Sun that now 
From ancient melody have ceased; 

Whether in Heaven ye wander fair. 
Or the green corners of the Earth, 

Or the blue regions of the air. 

Where the melodious winds have birth* 

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove 
Beneath the bosom of the sea. 

Wandering in many a coral grove; 
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry: 

How have you left your ancient love 
That bards of old enjoyed in you! 

The languid strings do scarcely move, 
The sound is forced, the notes are few. 

above. ^ claim. ^ i. e., have the first place. 



WILLIAM BLAKE 297 



LOVE'S SECRET 

Never seek to tell thy love 
Love that never told can be; 

For the gentle wind doth move 
Silently, invisibly. 

I told my love, I told my love, 
I told her all my heart. 

Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears :- 
Ah! she did depart. 

Soon after she was gone from me 

A traveller came by. 
Silently, invisibly: 

He took her with a sigh. 



AH, SUNFLOWER 

Ah, Sunflower, weary of time, 
Who countest the steps of the sun, 
Seeking after that sweet golden clime 
Where the traveller's journey is done — 

Where the youth pined away with desire, 
And the pale virgin, shrouded in snow. 
Arise from their graves, and aspire 
Where my sunflower wishes to go! 



AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE 

To see the world in a grain of sand. 
And a heaven in a wild flower; 

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, 
And eternity in an hour. 



298 BRITISH POEMS 



THE LAMB 

Little lamb, who made thee? 
Dost thou know who made thee, 
Gave thee life and bade thee feed 
By the stream and o'er the mead; 
Gave thee clothing of delight, 
Softest clothing, woolly, bright; 
Gave thee such a tender voice, 
Making all the vales rejoice? 

Little lamb, who made thee? 

Dost thou know who made thee? 

Little lamb, I'll tell thee; 
Little lamb, I'll tell thee. 
He is called by thy name, 
For He calls himself a Lamb; 
He is meek and He is mild, 
He became a little child. 
I a child and thou a lamb, 
We are called by His name. 

Little lamb, God bless thee! 

Little lamb, God bless thee! 



THE TIGER 

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright 
In the forests of the night. 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 
On what wings dare he aspire? 
What the hand dare seize the fire? 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 299 

And what shoulder, and what art, 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 
And when thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand? and what dread feet? 

What the hammer? what the chain? 
In what furnace was thy brain? 
What the anvil? what dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp? 

When the stars threw down their spears. 
And watered heaven with their tears. 
Did he smile his work to see? 
Did he who made the Lamb make thee? 

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright 
In the forests of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH [1770-1850] 

LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN 

ABBEY 

Five years have past; five summers, with the length 

Of five long winters! and again I hear 

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 

With a soft inland murmur. — Once again 

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs. 

That on a wild secluded scene impress 

Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect 

The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 

The day is come when I again repose 

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 

These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts. 

Which at this season, with their unripe fruits. 

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 



300 BRITISH POEMS 

'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, Httle Hnes 
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, 
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke 
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! 
With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless w^oods. 
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire 
The Hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous forms, 
Through a long absence, have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; 
And passing even into my purer mind, 
With tranquil restoration: — feelings too 
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's life. 
His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust. 
To them I may have owed another gift. 
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood. 
In which the burthen of the mystery. 
In which the heavy and the weary weight 
Of all this unintelligible world, 
Is lightened: — that serene and blessed mood. 
In which the affections gently lead us on, — 
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 
And even the motion of our human blood 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
In body, and become a living soul: 
While with an eye made quiet by the power 
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy. 
We see into the life of things. 

If this 
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft — 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 301 

In darkness and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless dayh'ght; when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world. 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 

sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods. 
How often has my spirit turned to thee! 

And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, 
With many recognitions dim and faint, 
And somewhat of a sad perplexity. 
The picture of the mind revives again: 
While here I stand, not only with the sense 
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
That in this moment there is life and food 
For future years. And so I dare to hope, 
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 

1 came among these hills; when lil^e a roe 
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 
Wherever nature led: more like a man 

Flying from something that he dreads, than one 
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then 
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 
And their glad animal movements all gone by) 
To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
What then I was. The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
Their colours and their forms, were then to me 
An appetite; a feeling and a love. 
That had no need of a remoter charm, 
By thought supplied, nor any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past. 
And all its aching joys are now no more, 
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts 
Have followed; for such loss, I would believe. 
Abundant recompense. For I have learned 
To look on nature, not as in the hour 



302 BRITISH POEMS 

Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes 

The still, sad music of humanity, 

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 

To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 

A presence that disturbs me with the joy 

Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime 

Of something far more deeply interfused. 

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. 

And the round ocean, and the living air. 

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; 

A motion and a spirit, that impels 

All thinking things, all objects of all thought. 

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 

A lover of the meadows and the woods. 

And mountains; and of all that we behold 

From this green earth; of all the mighty world 

Of eye, and ear, — both what they half create, 

And what perceive; well pleased to recognize 

In nature and the language of the sense. 

The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. 

The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 

Of all my moral being. 

Nor perchance. 
If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay: 
For thou art with me here upon the banks 
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, 
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch 
The language of my former heart, and read 
My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while 
May I behold in thee what I was once. 
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make, 
Knowing that Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege. 
Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
From joy to joy: for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feel 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 303 

With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 

Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 

The dreary intercourse of daily life 

Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 

Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 

Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 

Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; 

And let the misty mountain-winds be free 

To blow against thee: and, in after years, 

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 

Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind 

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 

For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, 

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. 

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 

Of tender joj^ wilt thou remember me, 

And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance — 

If I should be where I no more can hear 

Thj' voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams 

Of past existence — wilt thou then forget 

That on the banks of this delightful stream 

We stood together; and that I, so long 

A worshipper of Nature, hither came 

Unwearied in that service: rather say 

With warmer love — oh! with far deeper zeal 

Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 

That after many wanderings, many years 

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs. 

And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 

More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake! 



SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS 

She dwelt among the untrodden w^ays 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A Maid whom there were none to praise 

And very few to love: 



304 BRITISH POEMS 

A violet by a mossy stone 
Half hidden from the eye! 

Fair as a star, when only one 
Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 
When Lucy ceased to be; 

But she is in her grave, and, oh. 
The difference to me! 



A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL 

A SLUMBER did my spirit seal; 

I had no human fears: 
She seemed a thing that could not feel 

The touch of earthly years. 

No motion has she now, no force; 

She neither hears nor sees; 
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, 

With rocks, and stones, and trees. 



TO THE CUCKOO 

BLITHE New-comer! I have heard, 

1 hear thee and rejoice. 

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, 
Or but a wandering Voice? 

While I am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold shout I hear. 
From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
At once far off, and near. 

Though babbling only to the Vale, 
Of sunshine and of flowers. 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 



WILLIAM WORDS^YORTH 305 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! 

Even yet thou art to me 

No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery; 

The same whom in my school-boy days 
I listened to; that Cry 
Which made me look a thousand ways 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love; 
Still longed for, never seen. 

And I can listen to thee yet; 
Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, faery place; 
That is fit home for Thee! 



THE SOLITARY REAPER 

Behold her, single in the field. 
Yon solitary Highland Lass! 
Reaping and singing by herself; 
Stop here, or gently pass! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
And sings a melancholy strain; 
O listen! for the Vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No Nightingale did ever chant 
More welcome notes to weary bands 



306 BRITISH POEMS 

Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
Among Arabian sands: 
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking the silence of the seas 
Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings? — 

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 

For old, unhappy, far-off things, 

And battles long ago: 

Or is it some more humble lay. 

Familiar matter of to-day? 

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. 

That has been, and may be again? 

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending; 
I saw her singing at her work. 
And o'er the sickle bending; — 
I listened, motionless and still; 
And, as I mounted up the hill. 
The music in my ear I bore 
Long after it was heard no more. 



I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD 

I WANDERED lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills. 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way. 
They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay: 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 307 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced; but they 

Out-did the sparkUng waves in glee: 

A poet could not but be gay, 

In such a jocund company: 

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought: 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood. 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils. 



SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT 

She was a Phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight; 

A lovely Apparition sent 

To be a moment's ornament; 

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; 

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; 

A dancing Shape, an Image gay. 

To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too! 

Her household motions light and free. 

And steps of virgin-liberty; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet; 

A Creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food; 



308 BRITISH POEMS 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine; 
A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A Traveller between life and death; 
The reason firm, the temperate will. 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 
A perfect Woman, nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command; 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
With something of angelic light. 



ELEGIAC STANZAS 

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE IN A STORM 
PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT 

I WAS thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! 
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: 
I saw thee every day; and all the while 
Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air; 
So like, so very like, was day to day! 
Whene'er I looked thy Image still was there; 



It trembled, but it never passed away. \ 

i 

How perfect was the calm! it seemed no sleep; j 

No mood which season takes away or brings: I 

I could have fancied that the mighty Deep j 

Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things. j 

Ah! then, if mine had been the Painter's hand, ' 
To express what then I saw; and add the gleam 

The light that never was on sea or land, j 
The consecration and the Poet's dream; 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 309 

I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile! 
Amid a world how different from this! 
Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; 
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 

Thou should'st have seemed a treasure-house divine 
Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven; — 
Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine 
The very sweetest had to thee been given. 

A Picture had it been of lasting ease, 
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; 
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze. 
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart. 

Such Picture would I at that time have made: 

And seen the soul of truth in every part; 

A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed. 

So once it would have been, — 'tis so no more; 
I have submitted to a new control: 
A power is gone, which nothing can restore; 
A deep distress hath humanized my Soul. 

Not for a moment could I now behold 
A smiling sea, and be what I have been: 
The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old; 
This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 

Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would have been the Friend, 

If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore. 

This work of thine I blame not, but commend; 

This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 

Oh, 'tis a passionate Work! — yet wise and well; 
Well chosen is the spirit that is here; 
That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell. 
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear! 



310 BRITISH POEMS 



And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, 

I love to see the look with which it braves. 

Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time 

The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. 

Farewell, farewell, the heart that lives alone. 
Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind! 
Such happiness, wherever it be known, 
Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind. 

But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer. 
And frequent sights of what is to be borne! 
Such sights, or worse, as are before me here. — 
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 



THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US 

The world is too much with us; late and soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: 
Little we see in Nature that is ours; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! 
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; 
For this, for everything, we are out of tune; 
It moves us not. — Great God! I'd rather be 
A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn, 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 311 



COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE 

Earth has riot anything to show more fair: 

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 

A sight so touching in its majesty: 

This City now doth, like a garment, wear 

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, 

Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie 

Open unto the fields, and to the sky; 

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 

Never did sun more beautifully steep 

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; 

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! 

The river glideth at his own sweet will: 

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; 

And all that mighty heart is lying still! 



IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 

The holy time is quiet as a Nun 

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun 

Is sinking down in its tranquillity; 

The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea: 

Listen! the mighty Being is awake. 

And doth with his eternal motion make 

A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, 

If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, 

Thy nature is not therefore less divine: 

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; 

And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 

God being with thee when we know it not. 



312 BRITISH POEMS 



LONDON 1802 



Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: 

England hath need of thee; she is a fen 

Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen. 

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. 

Have forfeited their ancient English dower 

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; 

Oh! raise us up, return to us again; 

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart: 

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: 

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 

So didst thou travel on life's common way, 

In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart 

The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 



ODE TO DUTY 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! 

O Duty! if that name thou love 

Who art a light to guide, a rod 

To check the erring, and reprove; 

Thou, who art victory and law 

When empty terrors overawe: 

From vain temptations dost set free: 

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 
Be on them; who, in love and truth. 
Where no misgiving is, rely 
Upon the genial sense of youth: 
Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot 
Who do thy work, and know it not: 
Oh! if through confidence misplaced 
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! 
Around them cast. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 313 

Serene will be our days and bright. 

And happy will our nature be. 

When love is an unerring light, 

And joy its own security. 

And they a blissful course may hold 

Even now, who, not unwisely bold. 

Live in the spirit of this creed; 

Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried, 

No sport of every random gust, 

Yet being to myself a guide. 

Too blindly have reposed my trust: 

And oft, when in my heart was heard 

Thy timely mandate, I deferred 

The task, in smoother walks to stray; 

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul. 

Or strong compunction in me wrought, 

I supplicate for thy control; 

But in the quietness of thought: 

Me this unchartered freedom tires; 

I feel the weight of chance-desires: 

My hopes no more must change their name, 

I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face: 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 
And fragrance in thy footing treads; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; 
And the most ancient heavens, through thee. 
Are fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power! 
I call thee: I mvself commend 



314 BRITISH POEMS 

Unto thy guidance from this hour; 

Oh, let my weakness have an end! 

Give unto me, made lowly wise, 

The spirit of self-sacrifice; 

The confidence of reason give; 

And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live! 



ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM 
RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight. 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light. 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore; — 
Turn whereso'er I may, 
By night or day. 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 

The Rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the Rose, 
The Moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare; 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth; 
But yet I know, where'er I go. 
That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song. 
And while the young lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of grief; 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 

And I again am strong: 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 315 

No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; 
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, 
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep. 
And all the earth is gay; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity, 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every Beast keep holiday; — 
Thou Child of Joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts. 
Thou happy Shepherd-boy! 

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 

My heart is at your festival, 

My head hath its coronal. 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 

evil day! if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adorning. 

This sweet May-morning, 
And the Children are culling 

On every side. 
In a thousand valleys far and wide. 
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm. 
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm: — 

1 hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 

— But there's a Tree, of many, one, 
A single Field which I have looked upon. 
Both of them speak of something that is gone: 

The Pansy at my feet 

Doth the same tale repeat: 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 
Hath had elsewhere its setting. 
And cometh from afar: 



316 BRITISH POEMS 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home: 
Heaven Hes about us in our infancy! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Bo3% 
But he beholds the Hght, and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy; 
The Youth, who dailj^ farther from the east 

Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended; 
At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 

Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. 

And, even with something of a Mother's mind, 
And no unworthy aim. 
The homely Nurse doth all she can 

To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 
Forget the glories he hath known. 

And that imperial palace whence he came. 

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. 
With light upon him from his father's eyes! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of human life. 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral; 

And this hath now his heart. 

And unto this he frames his song: 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 317 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little Actor cons another part; 
Filling from time to time his "humourous stage" 
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy Soul's immensity; 
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, — 

Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! 
On whom those truths do rest. 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; 
Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
A Presence which is not to be put by; 
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight. 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight. 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! 

O joy! that in our embers 

Is something that doth live. 

That nature yet remembers 

What was so fugitive! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction: not indeed 



318 BRITISH POEMS 

For that which is most worthy to be blest — 
DeHght and Hberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast :- 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishings; 
Blank misgivings of a Creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized. 
High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised: 
But for those first affections, 

Those shadowy recollections, 
Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake. 

To perish never; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour. 

Nor Man nor Boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy! 

Hence in a season of calm weather ' 
Though inland far we be. 
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither. 
Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the Children sport upon the shore. 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 

And let the young Lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound! 
We in thought will join your throng. 

Ye that pipe and ye that play, 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 319 

Ye that through your hearts to-daj' 

Feel the gladness of the May! 
What though the radiance which was once so bright 
Be now forever taken from my sight. 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 

We will grieve not, rather find 

Strength in what remains behind; 

In the primal sympathy 

Which having been must ever be; 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suffering; 

In the faith that looks through death. 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 

Forebode not any severing of our loves! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 

I only have relinquished one dehght 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret. 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 

Is lovely yet; 
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live. 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears. 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 



320 BRITISH POEMS 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE [1772-1834] 

KUBLA KHAN 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
A stately pleasure-dome decree: 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
Through caverns measureless to man 

Down to a sunless sea. 
So twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round: 
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills. 
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; 
And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! 
A savage place! as holy and enchanted 
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 
By woman wailing for her demon-lover! 
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, 
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
A mighty fountain momently was forced: 
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail. 
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail; 
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
It flung up momently the sacred river. 
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 
Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: 
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
Ancestral voices prophesying war! 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
Floated midway on the waves; 
Where was heard the mingled measure 
From the fountain and the caves. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 321 

It was a miracle of rare device, 

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! 

A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw: 

It was an Abyssinian maid, 

And on her dulcimer she played, 

Singing of Mount Abora. 

Could I revive within me 

Her symphony and song. 

To such a deep delight 'twould win me. 
That with music loud and long, 
I would build that dome in air. 
That sunny dome! those caves of ice! 
And all who heard should see them there. 
And all should cry, " Beware! Beware! 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 
Weave a circle round him thrice, 
And close your eyes with holy dread. 
For he on honey-dew hath fed, 
And drunk the milk of Paradise." 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 



How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold 
Country toward the South Pole; and how from thence she made her 
course to the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean; and of the 
strange things that befell; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere 
came back to his own Country. 

Part I 
An ancient It is an aucicnt Mariner, 

mariner meeteth a i i j ±i r ±i 

three gallants ^ud he stoppeth onc ot three. 

bidden to a "gy thy loug gray beard and glittering eye, 

and detaineth Now whcrcfore stopp'st thou me ? 

one. 

1 The Argument was prefixed co the first Edition of " The Ancient Mariner," 1798. 
The syllabus was added in 1829, when Coleridge considerably revised the poem. The 
text given is that of the edition of 1829. 



The Wedding- 
Guest is spell- 
bound by the 
eye of the old 
seafaring man, 
and constrained 
to hear his tale. 



BRITISH POEMS 

The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide. 
And I am next of kin; 
The guests are met, the feast is set: 
May'st hear the merry din." 

He holds him with his skinny hand, 
"There was a ship," quoth he. 
"Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard loon!" 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 

He holds him with his glittering eye — • 
The Wedding-Guest stood still. 
And listens like a three years' child: 
The Mariner hath his will. 

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: 
He cannot choose but hear; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 

"The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared, 

Merrily did we drop 

Below the kirk, below the hill. 

Below the lighthouse top. 



The Mariner The sun Came up upon the left, 

shipsalkd^outh- Out of the sea came he! 

ward with a good And he shouc bright, and on the right 

weather, till it Went down iuto the sea. 

reached the Line. 

Higher and higher every day. 

Till over the mast at noon — " 

The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast. 

For he heard the loud bassoon. 



The Wedding- The bride hath paced into the hall. 

Guest heareth -r> i • i 

the bridal music; I^^d as a rosc IS shc; 

but the Mariner Noddiug their hcads before her goes 

contmueth his . 

tale. Ine merry mmstrelsy. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



323 



The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
Yet he cannot choose but hear; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 



The ship drawn *'And uow the Storm-blast came, and he 
towardTh^ south Was tyrannous and strong: 
pole. He struck with his o'ertaking wings. 

And chased us south along. 



With sloping masts and dipping prow. 

As who pursued with yell and blow 

Still treads the shadow of his foe, 

And forward bends his head. 

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast. 

And southward aye we fled. 

And now there came both mist and snow. 
And it grew wondrous cold: 
And ice, mast-high, came floating by. 
As green as emerald. 



The land of ice, And through the drifts the snowy clifts 

and of fearful -nv i i t 11 

sounds, where L)id scud a dismal sheen: 
no living thing '^q^ shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 
The ice was all between. 



was to be seen. 



The ice was here, the ice was there, 

The ice was all around: 

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled. 

Like voices in a swound! 



Till a great sea- 
bird called the 
Albatross came 
through the 
snow-fog, and 
was received 
with great joy 
and hospitality. 



At length did cross an i\.lbatross, 
Thorough the fog it came; 
As if it had been a Christian soul. 
We hailed it in God's name. 

It ate the food it ne'er had eat. 
And round and round it flew. 



324 



BRITISH POEMS 



The ice did split with a thunder-fit; 
The helmsman steered us through! 



And lo! the Al- 
batross proveth 
a bird of good 
omen, and 
foUoweth the 
ship as it 
returned north- 
ward through 
fog and floating 



And a good south wind sprung up behind; 

The Albatross did follow, 

And every day, for food or play. 

Came to the mariner's hollo! 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud. 

It perched for vespers nine; 

While all the night, through fog-smoke white. 

Glimmered the white moon-shine." 



The ancient "God save thcc, aucicut Mariner! 

pitab^y'^kmeth" From the fiends, that plague thee thus! — 
the pious bird Why look'st thou so." — "With my cross-bow 
I shot the Albatross." 



of good omen. 



Part II 

"The Sun now rose upon the right: 
Out of the sea came he. 
Still hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 

And the good south wind still blew behind. 
But no sweet bird did follow. 
Nor any day for food or play 
Came to the mariners' hollo! 



His shipmates 
cry out against 
the ancient 
Mariner, for 
killing the bird 
of good luck. 



And I had done an hellish thing, 

And it would work 'em woe: 

For all averred, I had killed the bird, 

That made the breeze to blow. 

Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay. 

That made the breeze to blow! 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



325 



But when the 
fog cleared off, 
they justify the 
same, and thus 
make themselves 
accomplices in 
the crime. 



Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, 

The glorious Sun uprist: 

Then all averred, I had killed the bird 

That brought the fog and mist. 

'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay. 

That bring the fog and mist. 



The fair breeze 
continues; the 
ship enters the 
Pacific Ocean, 
and sails 
northward, even 
till it reaches 
the Line. 

The ship hath 
been suddenly 
becalmed. 



The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew. 

The furrow followed free; 

We were the first that ever burst 

Into that silent sea. 

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 
'Twas sad as sad could be; 
And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea! 

All in a hot and copper sky. 
The bloody Sun, at noon, 
Right up above the mast did stand. 
No bigger than the Moon. 

Day after day, day after day. 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 



And the 

Albatross begins 
to be avenged. 



W^ater, water, everywhere. 
And all the boards did shrink; 
W^ater, water, everywhere. 
Nor any drop to drink. 



The very deep did rot: O Christ! 
That ever this should be! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 



About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night; 



326 



BRITISH POEMS 



A Spirit had 
followed them; 
one of the 



The water, like a witch's oils, 
Burnt green, and blue and white. 

And some in dreams assured were 
Of the Spirit that plagued us so; 



invisible inhabit- Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
planet, neither From the land of mist and snow. 

departed souls 

nor angels; concerning whom the learned Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Constanti- 
nopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is 
no climate or element without one or more. 



And every tongue, through utter drought. 
Was withered at the root; 
We could not speak, no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 



The shipmates, 
in their sore 
distress, would 
fain throw the 
whole guilt on 
the ancient 
^lariner: in sign 
whereof they hang 
the dead seabird 
round his neck. 



Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young! 
Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was hung. 



Part III 



The ancient 
Mariner behold- 
eth a sign in the 
element afar off. 



"There passed a weary time. Each throat 

Was parched, and glazed each eye. 

A weary time! a weary time! 

How glazed each weary eye! — 

When looking westward, I beheld 

A something in the sky. 

At first it seemed a little speck, 
And then it seemed a mist; 
It moved and moved, and took at last 
A certain shape, I wist. 



A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! 
And still it neared and neared: 
As if it dodged a water-sprite. 
It plunged and tacked and veered. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



327 



At its nearer 
approach, it 
seemeth him to 
be a ship; and 
at a dear ransom 
he freeth his 
speech from the 
bonds of thirst. 



With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 

We could nor laugh nor wail; 

Through utter drought all dumb we stood! 

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 

And cried, A sail! a sail! 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 
Agape they heard me call: 
Gramercy! they for joy did grin. 
And all at once their breath drew in. 
As they were drinking all. 

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more! 
Hither to work us weal. 
Without a breeze, without a tide, 
She steadies with upright keel! 

The western wave was all aflame. 

The day w^as well-nigh done! 

Almost upon the western wave 

Rested the broad bright Sun; 

When that strange shape drove suddenly 

Betwixt us and the Sun. 



It seemeth him And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, 

but the skeleton /^t ? t» «- . i i i\ 

of a ship. (Heaven s Mother send us grace !) 

As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
With broad and burning face. 

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
How fast she nears and nears! 
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
Like restless gossameres? 



And its ribs are 
seen as bars on 
the face of the 
setting Sun. 

The Spectre 

Woman and her 

Death-mate, and 

no other on board the skeleton-ship. 



Are those her ribs through which the Sun 
Did peer, as through a grate? 
And is that Woman all her crew.'* 
Is that a Death .^ and are there two.^ 
Is Death that woman's mate.f^ 



328 



BRITISH POEMS 



Like vessel, like 
crew! 



Her lips were red, her looks were free. 
Her locks were yellow as gold: 
Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she. 
Who thicks man's blood with cold. 



Death and Life- The naked hulk alongside came. 



in-Death have 
diced for the 
ship's crew, and 
she (the latter) 
winneth the 
ancient Mariner, 



And the twain were casting dice; 

'The game is done! IVe won! I've won!' 

Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out. 
At one stride comes the dark; 
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea. 
Off shot the spectre-bark. 

We listened and looked sideways up! 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup. 

My life-blood seemed to sip! 

The stars were dim, and thick the night, 

The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; 

From the sails the dew did drip — 

Till clomb above the eastern bar 

The horned Moon, with one bright star 

Within the nether tip. 

One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, 
Too quick for groan or sigh, 
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang. 
And cursed me with his eye. 



His shipmates Four times fifty living men, 

drop down dead. / 4 i x i 1 • 1 \ 

(And 1 heard nor sigh nor groan) 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump. 
They dropped down one by one. 



But Life-in- The souls did from their bodies fly, 

he?lork?n°the They flcd to bliss or woe! 

ancient Mariner. And every soul, it passed by me. 

Like the whizz of my cross-bow — !' 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



329 



Part IV 



The Wedding- "I fear thee, ancient Mariner! 

Guest feareth x <• .1 i • 1 1 

that a Spirit is I i^ar thy skinny hand 
talliing to him; And thou art long, and lank, and brown, 
As is the ribbed sea-sand. 



I fear thee and thy glittering eye. 
And thy skinny hand, so brown." — 
"Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! 



But the ancient 

Mariner assureth rrn • i_ j 1 i ^ 1 

him of his bodily This body dropt not down 

life, and pro- 



ceedeth to relate 
his horrible 
penance. 



Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
Alone on a wide wide sea! 
And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 



He despiseth the The many men, so beautiful! 

creatures of the 4 1 .^ iii ii'ii- 

calm. And they all dead did lie: 

And a thousand, thousand slimy things 
Lived on; and so did I. 



And envieth I looked upon the Totting sea, 

that they should . 1 1 

live, and so And drew my eyes away; 

many lie dead. J looked upon the rotting deck. 
And there the dead men lay. 



I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; 
But or ever a prayer had gusht, 
A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 



I closed my lids, and kept them close. 

And the balls like pulses beat; 

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky 

Lay like a load on my weary eye, 

And the dead were at my feet. 



330 



BRITISH POEMS 



But the curse The cold swcat melted from their Hmbs, 

liveth for him in 
the eye of the 

dead men. The look with which they looked on me 



Nor rot nor reek did thev: 



Had never passed away. 

An orphan's curse would drag to hell 

A spirit from on high; 

But oh! more horrible than that 

Is a curse in a dead man's eye! 

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 

And yet I could not die. 

The moving Moon went up the sky. 

And nowhere did abide: 

Softly she was going up, 

And a star or two beside — 

Her beams bemocked the sultry main. 

Like April hoar-frost spread; 

But where the ship's huge shadow lay. 

The charmed water burnt alway 

A still and awful red. 



By the light of 
the Moon he 
beholdeth God's 
creatures of the 
great calm. 



Beyond the shadow of the ship, 

I watched the water-snakes: 

They moved in tracks of shining white. 

And when they reared, the elfish light 

Fell off in hoary flakes. 



He blesseth 
them in his 
heart. 



Within the shadow of the ship 

I watched their rich attire: 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black. 

They coiled and swam; and every track 

Was a flash of golden fire. 

O happy living things! no tongue 

Their beauty might declare: 

A spring of love gushed from my heart, 

And I blessed them unaware: 

Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 

And I blessed them unaware. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



331 



The selfsame moment I could pray; 
And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea. 



Part V 

"Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, 
Beloved from pole to pole! 
To Mary Queen the praise be given! 
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 
That slid into my soul. 



By grace of The silly buckets on the deck, 

the holy Mother, rr", i u j i • j 

the ancient I hat had SO loug remauied. 

Mariner is J dreamt that they were filled with dew: 

refreshed with a i i t i • • i 

rain. And whcn 1 awoke, it ramed. 



My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
My garments all were dank; 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams. 
And still my body drank. 

I moved, and could not feel my limbs: 
I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep. 
And was a blessed ghost. 



It did not come anear; 



He heareth And soon I heard a roaring wind : 

sounds and seeth 
strange sights 

and commotions But with its souud it shook the sails, 
the element. That were SO thin and sere. 



The upper air burst into life! 
And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 
To and fro they were hurried about! 
And to and fro, and in and out. 
The wan stars danced between. 



332 



BRITISH POEMS 



And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
And the sails did sigh like sedge; 
And the rain poured down from one black cloud; 
The Moon was at its edge. 

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
The Moon was at its side: 
Like waters shot from some high crag. 
The lightning fell with never a jag, 
A river steep and wide. 



The bodies of The loud wiud never reached the ship. 

Ire fnspirerrnd Yct UOW the ship mOVcd OU ! 

the ship moves Beneath the lightning and the Moon 
The dead men gave a groan. 



They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose. 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; 
It had been strange, even in a dream. 
To have seen those dead men rise. 

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; 

Yet never a breeze up blew; 

The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 

Where they were wont to do; 

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — 

We were a ghastly crew. 



But not by the 
souls of the men, 
nor by demons of 
earth or middle 
air, but by a 
blessed troop of 
angelic spirits, 
sent down by the 
invocation of the 
guardian saint. 



The body of my brother's son 
Stood by me, knee to knee: 
The body and I pulled at one rope 
But he said nought to me." — 

"I fear thee, ancient Mariner!" — 
*'Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 
'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, 
Which to their corses came again. 
But a troop of spirits blest: 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



333 



For when it dawned — they dropped their arms. 
And clustered round the mast; 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, 
And from their bodies passed. 

Around, around, flew each sweet sound. 
Then darted to the Sun; 
Slowly the sounds came back again. 
Now mixed, now one bj- one. 

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
I heard the sky-lark sing; 
Sometimes all little birds that are, 
How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
With their sweet jargoning! 

And now 'twas like all instruments. 
Now like a lonely flute; 
And now it is an angel's song, 
That makes the heavens be mute. 

It ceased; yet still the sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all night 

Singeth a quiet tune. 

Till noon we quietly sailed on. 
Yet never a breeze did breathe: 
Slowly and smoothly went the ship. 
Moved onward from beneath. 



The lonesome 
Spirit from the 
south-pole 
carries on the 
ship as far as the 
Line, in obedi- 
ence to the 
angelic troop, but 
still requireth 
vengeance. 



Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
From the land of mist and snow. 
The spirit slid: and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 
The sails at noon left off their tune. 
And the ship stood still also. 



334 



BRITISH POEMS 



The Sun, right up above the mast. 
Had fixed her to the ocean: 
But in a minute she 'gan stir, 
With a short uneasy motion — 
Backwards and forwards half her length 
With a short uneasy motion. 

Then like a pawing horse let go. 
She made a sudden bound: 
It flung the blood into my head, 
And I fell down in a s wound. 



How long in that same fit I lay, 
I have not to declare; 
But ere my living life returned, 
I heard and in my soul discerned 
Two voices in the air. 



The Polar 
Spirit's fellow- 
demons, the 
invisible inhabit- 
ants of the 
element, take 
part in his 
wrong; and two 

of them relate one to the other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient Mariner hath 
been accorded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth southward. 



*Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man? 
By him who died on cross, 
With his cruel bow he laid full low 
The harmless Albatross. 

The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow. 
He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow.' 



The other was a softer voice. 

As soft as honey-dew: 

Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done. 

And penance more will do.' 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 335 



. ,r . Part VI 

First Voice — 

'"But tell me, tell me! speak again, 

Thy soft response renewing — 

What makes that ship drive on so fast? 

What is the ocean doing ? ' 

Second Voice — 

'Still as a slave before his lord. 
The ocean hath no blast; 
His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the Moon is cast — 

If he may know which way to go; 
For she guides him smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see! how graciously 
She looketh down on him.' 

First Voice — 

The Mariner ' But why drivcs on that ship so fast, 

hath been cast ^ithout Or WavC Or wiud ? ' 

into a trance; 

for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could 

endure. 

Second Voice — 

'The air is cut away before. 

And closes from behind. 

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! 

Or we shall be belated: 

For slow and slow that ship will go, 

When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 

The supernatural I wokc, and wc wcre sailing on 

TetlrdedT the As in a gcutlc wcathcr: 

jNiariner awakes, 'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high, 

begins anew. The dead men stood together. 

All stood together on the deck, 
For a charnel-dungeon fitter: 
All fixed on me their stony eyes. 
That in the Moon did glitter. 



336 BRITISH POEMS 

! 

The pang, the curse, with which they died, ' | 

Had never passed away: i 
I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 
Nor turn them up to pray. 

The curse is And now this spell was snapt : once more ' 

finally expiated, x • j j.t- 

1 Viewed the ocean green, 1 

And looked far forth, yet little saw j 

Of what had else been seen — ! 

Like one, that on a lonesome road ' 
Doth walk in fear and dread. 

And having once turned round walks on, j 

And turns no more his head; i 

Because he knows, a frightful fiend j 

Doth close behind him tread. ' 

But soon there breathed a wind on me. 

Nor sound nor motion made: 

Its path was not upon the sea, ! 

In ripple or in shade. i 

i 

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek j 

Like a meadow-gale of spring — i 

It mingled strangely with my fears, | 

Yet it felt like a welcoming. : 

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship. 

Yet she sailed softly too: j 

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — | 
On me alone it blew. 

And the ancient Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed 
hoSSh'his' The light-house top I see.^ 

native country. Ig this the hill.? is this the kirk.? \ 

Is this mine own countree.? ' 

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar. 

And I with sobs did pray — i 

'O let me be awake, my God! } 

Or let me sleep alway. ' j 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



337 



The angelic 
spirits leave the 
dead bodies, 



The harbour-bay was clear as glass, 
So smooth^ it was strewn! 
And on the bay the moonlight lay. 
And the shadow of the Moon. 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less. 
That stands above the rock: 
The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 

And the bay was white with silent light 
Till rising from the same, 
Full many shapes, that shadows were. 
In crimson colours came. 



And appear in A little distance from the prow 
their own forms r^^ crimsou shadows wcrc: 

of light. 

I turned my eyes upon the deck — 
Oh, Christ! what saw I there! 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat. 
And, by the holy rood! 
A man all light, a seraph-man. 
On every corse there stood. 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand: 
It was a heavenly sight! 
They stood as signals to the land. 
Each one a lovely light; 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand. 
No voice did they impart — 
No voice; but oh! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 



But soon I heard the dash of oars, 
I heard the Pilot's cheer; 
My head was turned perforce away. 
And I saw a boat appear. 



BRITISH POEMS 

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 
I heard them coming fast: 
Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third — I heard his voice: 

It is the Hermit good! 

He singeth loud his godly hymns 

That he makes in the wood. 

He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 

The Albatross's blood. 



Part VII 



The Hermit of 
the Wood, 



"This Hermit good lives in that wood 
Which slopes down to the sea. 
How loudly his sweet voice he rears! 
He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far countree. 



He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — 

He hath a cushion plump: 

It is the moss that wholly hides 

The rotted old oak-stump. 

The skiff -boat neared: I heard them talk, 
'Wh3% this is strange, I trow! 
Where are those lights so many and fair. 
That signal made but now?' 



Approacheth 
the ship with 
wonder. 



'Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said — 

'And they answered not our cheer! 

The planks looked warped! and see those sails. 

How thin they are and sere! 

I never saw aught like to them. 

Unless perchance it were 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



339 



Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest-brook along; 
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow. 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below. 
That eats the she-wolf's young.' 

'Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look' — 
(The Pilot made reply) 
'I am a-feared.'- — 'Push on, push on!' 
Said the Hermit cheerily. 

The boat came closer to the ship, 
But I nor spake nor stirred; 
The boat came close beneath the ship. 
And straight a sound was heard. 



The ship 
suddenly 
sioketh. 



Under the water it rumbled on. 
Still louder and more dread: 
It reached the ship, it split the bay; 
The ship went down like lead. 



The ancient 
Mariner is saved 
in the Pilot's 
boat. 



Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound. 

Which sky and ocean smote, 

Like one that hath been seven days drowned 

My body lay afloat; 

But swift as dreams, myself I found 

Within the Pilot's boat. 



Upon the whirl, where sank the ship. 
The boat spun round and round; 
And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 



I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 
And fell down in a fit; 
The Holy Hermit raised his eyes. 
And prayed where he did sit. 



340 



BRITISH POEMS 



I took the oars: The Pilot's boy 

Who now doth crazy go 

Laughed loud and long, and all the while 

His eyes went to and fro. 

*Ha! ha!' quoth he, *full plain I see. 

The Devil knows how to row.' 

And now, all in my own countree, 

I stood on the firm land! 

The Hermit stepped forth from the boat. 

And scarcely he could stand. 



The ancient 
Mariner 
earnestly 
entreateth the 
Hermit to 
shrieve him; and 
the penance of 
life falls on him. 



'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!' 
The Hermit crossed his brow. 
'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say — 
What manner of man art thou.^' 

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 

With a woful agony. 

Which forced me to begin my tale; 

And then it left me free. 



And ever and 
anon throughout 
his future life 
an agony 
constraineth 
him to travel 
from land to 
land, 



Since then, at an uncertain hour. 
That agony returns: 
And till my ghastly tale is told. 
This heart within me burns. 

I pass, like night, from land to land; 
I have strange power of speech; 
That moment that his face I see, 
I know the man that must hear me: 
To him my tale I teach. 



What loud uproar bursts from that door! 
The wedding-guests are there: 
But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bride-maids singing are: 
And hark the little vesper bell. 
Which biddeth me to prayer! 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 341 

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide wide sea: 
So lonely, 'twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 

O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
'Tis sweeter far to me. 
To walk together to the kirk. 
With a goodly company! — 

To walk together to the kirk. 

And all together pray. 

While each to his great Father bends. 

Old men, and babes, and loving friends 

And youths and maidens gay! 

And to teach, Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 
exampleriove ^o thee, thou Weddiug-Gucst! 

and reverence to JJc praycth Wcll, who lovcth Well 

God made and Both man and bird and beast. 

loveth. 

He praj^eth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small; 
For the dear God who loveth us. 
He made and loveth all." 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright. 
Whose beard with age is hoar, 
Is gone; and now the Wedding-Guest 
Turned from the bridegroom's door. 

He went like one that hath been stunned. 
And is of sense forlorn: 
A sadder and a wiser man. 
He rose the morrow morn. 



342 BRITISH POEMS 



THE KNIGHT'S TOMB 



Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? 

Where may the grave of that good man be? — 

By the side of a spring, on the breast of Hevellyn, 

Under the twigs of a young birch tree! 

The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, 

And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, 

And whistled and roared in the winter alone. 

Is gone, — and the birch in its stead is grown — 

The Knight's bones are dust. 

And his good sword rust; 

His soul is with the saints, I trust. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT [1771-1832] 

BONNY DUNDEE 

To the Lords of Convention 't was Claver'se who spoke, 

"Ere the King's crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke; 

So let each Cavalier who loves honour and me, 

Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can. 
Come saddle your horses and call up your men; 
Come open the West Port and let me gang free, 
And it 's room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!" 

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street. 
The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat; 
But the Provost, douce man, said, "Just e'en let him be, 
The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee." 

As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow 

Ilk carline was fly ting and shaking her pow; 

But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee, 

Thinking luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny Dundee! 



SIR WALTER SCOTT 343 

With sour-featured Whigs the Grass-market was crammed. 
As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged; 
There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e'e. 
As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee. 

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears. 
And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers; 

But they shrunk to close-heads and the causeway was free, 
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock. 

And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke; 

"Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three. 

For the love of the bonnet of Bonn^^ Dundee." 

The Gordon demands of him which way he goes — 
"Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose! 
Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, 
Or that low lies the bonnet on Bonny Dundee. 

"There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond Forth, 
If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the North; 
There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three, 
Will cry hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

"There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide; 
There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside; 
The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free. 
At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

"Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks — 
Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch with the fox; 
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, 
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me!" 

He waved his proud hand and the trumpets were blown. 
The kettle-drums clashed and the horsemen rode on, 
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lee 
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dundee. 



344 BRITISH POEMS 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, 
Come saddle the horses and call up the men, 
Come open your gates and let me gae free. 
For it's up with the bonnets of Bonny Dundee! 

[From The Doom of Devorgoil.] 

THE FIGHT ON FLODDEN FIELD 

Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still 
With Lady Clare upon the hill. 
On which — for far the day was spent — 
The western sunbeams now were bent; 
The cry they heard, its meaning knew, 
Could plain their distant comrades view: 

Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, 
"Unworthy office here to stay! 
No hope of gilded spurs to-day. — 
But see! look up — on Flodden bent 
The Scottish foe has fired his tent." 

And sudden, as he spoke. 
From the sharp ridges of the hill. 
All downward to the banks of Till, 

Was wreathed in sable smoke. 
Volumed and vast, and rolling far. 
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war 

As down the hill they broke; 
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone. 
Announced their march; their tread alone. 
At times one warning trumpet blown. 

At times a stifled hum, 
Told England, from his mountain-throne 

King James did rushing come. 
Scarce could they hear or see their foes 
Until at weapon-point they close. — 
They close in clouds of smoke and dust. 
With sword-sway and with lance's thrust; 

And such a yell was there, 
Of sudden and portentous birth, 
As if men fought upon the earth, 



SIR WALTER SCOTT 345 

And fiends in upper air: 
Oh! life and death were in the shout, 
Recoil and rally, charge and rout. 

And triumph and despair. 
Long looked the anxious squires; their eye 
Could in the darkness nought descry. 

At length the freshening western blast 

Aside the shroud of battle cast; 

And first the ridge of mingled spears 

Above the brightening cloud appears, 

And in the smoke the pennons flew. 

As in the storm the white seamew. 

Then marked they, dashing broad and far. 

The broken billows of the war. 

And plumed crests of chieftains brave 

Floating like foam upon the wave; 

But nought distinct they see: 
Wide raged the battle on the plain; 
Spears shook and falchions flashed amain; 
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain; 
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again. 

Wild and disorderly. 
Amid the scene of tumult, high 
They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly; 
The stainless Tunstall's banner white. 
And Edmund Howard's lion bright. 
Still bear them bravely in the fight, 

Although against them come 
Of gallant Gordons many a one. 
And many a stubborn Badenoch-man, 
And many a rugged Border clan. 

With Huntly and with Home. — 
Far on the left, unseen the while, 
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle, 
Though there the western mountaineer 
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear. 
And flung the feeble targe aside. 
And with both hands the broadsword plied. 



346 BRITISH POEMS 

'Twas vain. — But Fortune, on the right, 
With fickle smile cheered Scotland's fight. 
Then fell that spotless banner white, 

The Howard's lion fell; 
Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew 
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew 

Around the battle-yell. 
The Border Slogan rent the sky! 
A Home! a Gordon! was the cry: 

Loud were the clanging blows; 
Advanced, — forced back, now low, now high, 

The pennon sunk and rose; 
As bends the bark's mast in the gale. 
When rent are rigging, shrouds and sail, 

It wavered mid the foes. 

[From Canto VI, Marmion. 



ROBERT SOUTHEY [1774-1843] 

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM 

It was a summer evening. 

Old Kaspar's work was done. 
And he before his cottage door 

Was sitting in the sun. 
And by him sported on the green 
His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 

She saw her brother Peterkin 
Roll something large and round. 

Which he beside the rivulet 
In playing there had found; 

He came to ask what he had found. 

That was so large, and smooth, and round, 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 
Who stood expectant by; 



ROBERT SOUTHEY 347 

And then the old man shook his head, 

And with a natural sigh, 
'"Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, 
"Who fell in the great victory. 

"I find them in the garden 

For there's many here about; 
And often when I go to plough. 

The ploughshare turns them out! 
For many thousand men," said he, 
"Were slain in that great victory." 

"Now tell me what 'twas all about," 

Young Peterkin, he cries; 
And little Wilhelmine looks up 

With wonder-waiting eyes; 
"Now tell us all about the war. 
And what they fought each other for." 

"It was the English," Kaspar cried, 

"Who put the French to rout; 
But what they fought each other for, 

I could not well make out; 
But everybody said," quoth he, 
"That 'twas a famous victory. 

"My father lived at Blenheim then. 

Yon little stream hard by; 
They burnt his dwelling to the ground. 

And he was forced to fly; 
So with his wife and child he fled. 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 

"With fire and sword the country round 

Was wasted far and wide. 
And many a childing mother then. 

And new-born baby died; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 



348 BRITISH POEMS 

"They say it was a shocking sight 

After the field was won; 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun; 
But things Hke that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 

"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, 
And our good Prince Eugene." 

"Why 'twas a very wicked thing!" 
Said httle Wilhelmine. 

"Nay, nay, my Httle girl," quoth he, 

"It was a famous victory. 

"And everybody praised the Duke 
Who this great fight did win." 

"But what good came of it at last.-^" 
Quoth little Peterkin. 

"W^hy that I cannot tell," said he, 

"But 'twas a famous victory." 



CHARLES LAMB [1775-1834] 
THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES 

I HAVE had plaj^mates, I have had companions. 
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing. 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a Love once, fairest among women: 
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her — 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 349 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: 
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, 
Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother. 
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling.^ 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces. 

How some they have died, and some they have left me. 
And some are taken from me; all are departed; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR [1775-1864] 

ROSE AYLMER 

Ah what avails the sceptred race. 

Ah what the form divine! 
What every virtue, every grace! 

Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 

May weep, but never see, 
A night of memories and of sighs 

I consecrate to thee. 

DIRGE 

Stand close around, ye Stygian set. 
With Dirce in one boat conveyed. 

Or Charon, seeing, may forget 
That he is old, and she a shade. 



350 BRITISH POEMS 



THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA 

"Artemidora! Gods invisible, 
While thou art lying faint along the couch, 
Have tied the sandal to thy slender feet 
And stand beside thee, ready to convey 
Thy weary steps where other rivers flow. 
Refreshing shades will waft thy weariness 
Away, and voices like thy own come near 
And nearer, and solicit an embrace." 

Artemidora sigh'd, and would have pressed 
The hand now pressing hers, but was too weak. 
Iris stood over her dark hair unseen 
While thus Elpenor spake. He looked into 
Eyes that had given light and life ere-while 
To those above them, but now dim with tears 
And wakefulness. Again he spake of joy 
Eternal. At that word, that sad word, joy. 
Faithful and fond her bosom heav'd once more: 
Her head fell back; and now a loud deep sob 
Swell'd thro' the darken'd chamber: 'twas not hers. 



TO lANTHE 

Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives, 

Alcestis rises from the shades; 
Verse calls them forth; 'tis verse that gives 

Immortal youth to mortal maids. 

Soon shall Ol^livion's deepening veil 
Hide all the peopled hills you see. 

The gay, the proud, while lovers hail 
These many summers you and me. 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 351 



ON LUCRETIA BORGIA'S HAIR 

Borgia, thou once wert almost too august 
And high for adoration; now thou'rt dust; 
All that remains of thee these plaits unfold. 
Calm hair meandering in pellucid gold. 



IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON 

Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom 
At Aulis, and when all beside the King 
Had gone away, took his right hand, and said, 
"O father! I am young and very happy. 
I do not think the pious Calchas heard 
Distinctly what the Goddess spake. Old-age 
Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew 
My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood 
While I was resting on her knee both arms 
And hitting it to make her mind my words. 
And looking in her face, and she in mine, 
Might he not also hear one word amiss, 
Spoken from so far off, even from Oh'mpus.^" 
The father placed his cheek upon her head. 
And tears dropped down it, but the king of men 
Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more. 
*'0 father! sayst thou nothing? Hear'st thou not 
Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour. 
Listened to fondly, and awakened me 
To hear my voice amid the voice of birds. 
When it was inarticulate as theirs. 
And the down deadened it within the nest.^" 
He moved her gently from him, silent still. 
And this, and this alone, brought tears from her. 
Although she saw fate nearer: then with sighs, 
"I thought to have laid down my hair before 
Benignant Artemis, and not have dimmed 
Her polished altar with my virgin blood; 



352 BRITISH POEMS 

I thought to have selected the white flowers 

To please the Nymphs, and to have asked of each 

By name, and with no sorrowful regret, 

Whether, since both my parents willed the change, 

I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipped brow; 

And (after those who mind us girls the most,) 

Adore our own Athena, that she would 

Regard me mildly with her azure eyes. 

But father! to see you no more, and see 

Your love, O father! go ere I am gone . . .'* 

Gently he moved her off, and drew her back. 

Bending his lofty head far over hers, 

And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst. 

He turn'd away; not far, but silent still. 

She now first shuddered; for in him, so nigh. 

So long a silence seemed the approach of death. 

And like it. Once again she raised her voice. 

"O father! if the ships are now detained. 

And all your vows move not the Gods above. 

When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer 

The less to them: and purer can there be 

Any, or more fervent than the daughter's prater 

For her dear father's safety and success.'" 

A groan that shook him shook not his resolve. 

An aged man now entered, and without 

One word, stepped slowly on, and took the wrist 

Of the pale maiden. She looked up and saw 

The fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes. 

Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried 

"O father! grieve no more: the ships can sail." 



ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY 

I STROVE with none; for none was worth my strife. 
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; 

I warmed both hands before the fire of life, 
It sinks, and I am ready to depart. 



THOMAS CAMPBELL 353 

THOMAS CAMPBELL [1777-1844] 
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND 

A NAVAL ODE 

Ye mariners of England 

That guard our native seas. 

Whose flag has braved a thousand years 

The battle and the breeze! 

Your glorious standard launch again 

To match another foe, 

And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long. 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave! — 

For the deck it was their field of fame 

And Ocean was their grave: 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 

Your manly hearts shall glow, 

As ye sweep through the deep. 

While the stormy winds do blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long. 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwark. 

No towers along the steep; 

Her march is o'er the mountain waves. 

Her home is on the deep. 

W'ith thunders from her native oak 

She quells the floods below — 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow; 

When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 



354 BRITISH POEMS 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn, 

Till danger's troubled night depart 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name. 

When the storm has ceased to blow; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more. 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 



THOMAS MOORE [1779-1852] 

PRO PATRIA MORI 

When he, who adores thee, has left but the name 

Of his fault and his sorrows behind. 
Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame 

Of a life that for thee was resigned,^ 
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn. 

Thy tears shall efface their decree; 
For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, 

I have been but too faithful to thee. 

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; 

Every thought of my reason was thine; 
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above. 

Thy name shall be mingled with mine. 
Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live 

The days of thy glory to see; 
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give 

Is the pride of thus dying for thee. 



LORD BYRON 355 

GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD BYRON 

[1788-1824] 

MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART 

Za>77 /uoi/, eras dya-rrC}. 

Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
Give, oh, give me back my heart! 
Or, since that has left my breast. 
Keep it now, and take the rest! 
Hear my vow before I go, 

Zw^ fwv, eras dyairQ. 

By those tresses unconfined, 
Woo'd by each yEgean wind; 
By those hds whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
Zw'^ fioVj eras dyairCo. 

By that lip I long to taste; 
By that zone-encircled waist; 
By all the token-flowers that tell 
What words can never speak so well; 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 
Za;?7 ixov^ ads dyairG). 

Maid of Athens! I am gone: 
Think of me, sweet! when alone. 
Though I fly to Istambol, 
Athens holds my heart and soul; 
Can I cease to love thee? No! 
Zw^ fxov ffds dyairQ, 



356 BRITISH POEMS 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED 

When we two parted 

In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted 

To sever for years, 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss*^ 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken. 

And light is thy fame: 
I hear thy name spoken. 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 

Why wert thou so dear? 
They know not I knew thee. 

Who knew thee too well: 
Long, long shall I rue thee. 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve 
That thy heart could forget. 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years, 
How should I greet thee.^^ — 

With silence and tears. 



LORD BYRON 357 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes: 

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less. 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 

The smiles that win, the tints that glow. 
But tell of days in goodness spent, 

A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent! 



SONNET ON CHILLON 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless mind! 
Brightest in dungeons. Liberty! thou art. 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of thee alone can bind; 
And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom. 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom. 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
Chillon! thy prison is a holy place. 
And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod. 
Until his very steps have left a trace 
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! 
For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



358 BRITISH POEMS 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic Hke thee; 
And Uke music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me: 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing, 
The waves lie still and gleaming. 
And the luU'd winds seem dreaming; 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep; 

Whose breast is gently heaving, 
As an infant's asleep: 

So the spirit bows before thee. 

To listen and adore thee; 

With a full but soft emotion. 

Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 



ON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO 

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls. 

The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo! 

How in an hour the power which gave annuls 

Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too; 

In "pride of place" here last the eagle flew. 

Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain. 

Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through; 

Ambition's life and labours all were vain; 

He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken chain. 

Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit 
And foam in fetters;— but is Earth more free? 
Did nations combat to make One submit; 
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? 
What! shall reviving Thraldom again be 
The patch'd-up idol of enlighten'd days? 



LORD BYRON 359 

Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we 

Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze 

And servile knees to thrones? No; prove before ye praise! 

If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more! 
In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears 
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years 
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, 
Have all been borne, and broken by the accord 
Of roused-up millions; all that most endears 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 
Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 

And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 

Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; 

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when 

Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again. 

And all went merry as a marriage bell; 

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! 

Did ye not hear it? — No; 'twas but the wind. 

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 

On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd; 

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 

To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — 

But hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once more. 

As if the clouds its echo would repeat; 

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 

Arm! Arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar! 

Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival. 
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; 
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 



BRITISH POEMS 

Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, 

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; 

He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 

And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 

And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 

Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; 

And there were sudden partings, such as press 

The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 

Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess 

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. 

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! 

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb. 
Or whispering, with white lips — "The foe, they come! 
they come!" 

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose! 

The war-note ot Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 

Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: — 

How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills. 

Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills 

Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 

With the fierce native daring which instils 

The stirring memory of a thousand years. 

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! 

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves. 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops as they pass. 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves. 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas! 



LORD BYRON 361 

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 

Of living valour, rolling on the foe 

And burning with high hope shall moulder cold and low. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life. 

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay. 

The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife. 

The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day 

Battle's magnificently stern array! 

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 

The earth is cover'd thick with other clay. 

Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, 

Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent! 

[From Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.] 



THE ISLES OF GREECE 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung. 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet. 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse. 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 

Have found the fame your shores refuse: 
Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds which echo further west 

Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest." 

The mountains look on Marathon — 
And Marathon looks on the sea; 

And musing there an hour alone, 

I dream'd that Greece might still be free: 



362 BRITISH POEMS 

For standing on the Persians' grave, 
I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sate on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below. 
And men in nations; — all were his! 

He counted them at break of day — 

And when the sun set, where were they? 

And where are they? and where art thou. 
My country? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine. 

Degenerate into hands like mine? 

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though link'd among a fetter'd race. 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suflPuse my face; 

For what is left the poet here? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 

Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead! 
Of the three hundred grant but three. 
To make a new Thermopylae! 

What, silent still? and silent all? 

Ah! no; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 

And answer, "Let one living head. 
But one arise, — we come, we come!" 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain: strike other chords; 
Fill high the cup with Samian wine! 



LORD BYRON 

Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. 
And shed the blood of Scio's vine! 
Hark! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold Bacchanal! 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; 

Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 
Of two such lessons, why forget 

The nobler and the manlier one? 
You have the letters Cadmus gave — 
Think ye he meant them for a slave? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

We will not think of themes like these! 
It made Anacreon's song divine; 

He served — but served Polycrates — 
A tyrant; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend; 
That tyrant was Miltiades! 

Oh! that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill -high the bowl with Samian wine! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore. 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown. 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks, 
They have a king who buys and sells; 

In native swords and native ranks. 
The only hope of courage dwells: 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 

Would break your shield, however broad. 



3G4 BRITISH POEMS 

Fill liigli the bowl with Samian wine! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
I see their glorious black eyes shine; 

But gazing on each glowing maid. 
My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die: 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! 

[From Canto III, Don Juan. 



DON JUAN SOLILOQUIZES 

Milton's the prince of poets — so we say; 

A little heavy, but no less divine: 
An independent being in his day — 

Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine; 
But his life falling into Johnson's way. 

We're told this great high priest of all the Nine 
Was whipt at college — a harsh sire — odd spouse, 
For the first Mrs. Milton left his house. 

All these are, certes, entertaining facts. 

Like Shakspere's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's bribes; 
Like Titus' youth, and Caesar's earliest acts; 

Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well describes); 
Like Cromwell's pranks; — but although truth exacts 

These amiable descriptions from the scribes, 
As most essential to their hero's story, 
They do not much contribute to his glory. 

All are not moralists, like Southey, when 
He prated to the world of " Pantisocrasy : " 



LORD BYRON 365 

Or "Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then 
Season'd his pedlar poems with democrac}^; 

Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen 
Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy; 

When he and Southey, following the same path, 

Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath). 

Such names at present cut a convict figure. 
The very Botany Bay in moral geography; 

Their royal treason, renegado rigor. 

Are good manure for their more bare biographj^ 

Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger 
Than any since the birthday of typography; 

A drowsy frowzy poem, call'd the "Excursion," 

Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 

He there builds up a formidable dyke 

Between his own and others' intellect; 
But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like 

Joanna Southcote's Shiloh, and her sect. 
Are things which in this century don't strike 

The public mind, — so few are the elect; 
And the new births of both their stale virginities 
Have proved but dropsies, taken for divinities. 

But let me to my story: I must own. 

If I have any fault, it is digression. 
Leaving my people to proceed alone. 

While I soliloquize beyond expression: 
But these are my addresses from the throne, 

Which put off business to the ensuing session: 
Forgetting each omission is a loss to 
The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 

I know that what our neighbors call ""longueurs,'"' 
(We've not so good a word, but have the thing. 

In that complete perfection which insures 
An epic from Bob Southey every Spring — ) 



\GG BRITISH POEMS 

Form not the true temptation which alkires 

The reader; but 'twould not be hard to bring 
Some fine examples of the epopee. 
To prove its grand ingredient is ennui. 

We learn from Horace, "Homer sometimes sleeps;" 
We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes wakes, — 

To show with what complacency he creeps, 
With his dear "Wagoners,'' around his lakes. 

He wishes for "a boat" to sail the deeps — 
Of ocean? — No, of air; and then he makes 

Another outcry for "a little boat," 

And drivels seas to set it well afloat. 

If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain. 
And Pegasus runs restive in his "Wagon," 

Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain.^ 
Or pray Medea for a single dragon.^ 

Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain, 

He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on. 

And he must needs mount nearer to the moon. 

Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon,'^ 

"Pedlars," and "Boats," and "Wagons!" Oh! ye shades 
Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this.^ 

That trash of such sort not alone evades 
Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss 

Floats scumlike uppermost, and these Jack Cades 
Of sense and song above your graves may hiss — 

The "little boatman" and his "Peter Bell" 

Can sneer at him who drew " Achitophel ! " 

[From Canto III, Don Juan.] 



CHARLES WOLFE 367 

CHARLES WOLFE [1791-1823] 

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning; 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light. 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast. 

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow; 
But we stedfastly gazed on the face that was dead. 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed. 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 
And we far away on the billow! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone. 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — 

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our weary task was done 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 



368 BRITISH POEMS 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone 
But we left him alone with his glory. 



JOHN KEATS [1795-1821] ! 

! 

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER | 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, i 

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; ' 

Round many western islands have I been 

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. ; 

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told ' 

That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne; , 

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene i 

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: i 

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 

When a new planet swims into his ken; ^ 

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 

He star'd at the Pacific — and all his men I 

Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — 

Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 



ODE 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth! 
Have ye souls in heaven too. 
Double-lived in regions new? 
Yes, and those of heaven commune 
With the spheres of sun and moon; 
With the noise of fountains w^ond'rous: 
And the parle of voices thund'rous. 
With the whisper of heaven's trees 
And one another, in soft ease 
Seated on Elysian lawns 
Brows'd bv none but Dian's fawns; 



JOHN KEATS 369 

Underneath large blue-bells tented, 
Where the daisies are rose-scented. 
And the rose herself has got 
Perfume which on earth is not; 
Where the nightingale doth sing 
Not a senseless, tranced thing, 
But divine melodious truth; 
Philosophic numbers smooth; 
Tales and golden histories 
Of heaven and its mysteries. 

Thus ye live on high, and then 
On the earth ye live again; 
And the souls ye lift behind you 
Teach us, here, the way to find you. 
Where your other souls are joying. 
Never slumber'd, never cloying. 
Here, your earth-born souls still speak 
To mortals, of their little week; 
Of their sorrows and delights; 
Of their passions and their spites; 
Of their glory and their shame; 
What doth strengthen and what maim. 
Thus ye teach us, every day. 
Wisdom, though fled far away. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left j^our souls on earth! 
Ye have souls in heaven too. 
Double-lived in regions new! 

WHEN I HAVE FEARS 

When I have fears that I may cease to be 
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain. 
Before high piled books, in charact'ry. 
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; 
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face. 
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance. 
And think that I may never live to trace 
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; 



370 BRITISH POEMS j 

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour! j 

That I shall never look upon thee more, I 
Never have relish in the faery power 

Of unreflecting love! — then on the shore | 

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think j 
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 

St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was! 

The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; 

The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, 

And silent was the flock in woolly fold: 

Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told 

His rosary, and while his frosted breath. 

Like pious incense from a censer old, 

Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death. 

Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man 

Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees. 

And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan. 

Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: 

The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, 

Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: 

Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries. 

He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails 

To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 

Northward he turneth through a little door, 

And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue 

Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; 

But no — already had his deathbell rung; 

The joys of all his life were said and sung: 

His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve: 

Another way he went, and soon among 

Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. 

And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. 



JOHN KEATS 371 

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; 

And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide, 

From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 

The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide: 

The level chambers, ready with their pride, 

Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: 

The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, 

Star'd where upon their heads the cornice rests, 

With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts. 

At length burst in the argent revelry. 

With plume, tiara, and all rich array. 

Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 

The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay 

Of old romance. These let us wish away. 

And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, 

Wliose heart had brooded, all that wintry day. 

On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care. 

As she had heard old dames full many times declare. 

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 

Young virgins might have visions of delight. 

And soft adorings from their loves receive 

Upon the honey'd middle of the night 

If ceremonies due they did aright; 

As, supperless to bed they must retire, 

And couch supine their beauties, lily white; 

Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 

Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. 

Full of this whim w^as thoughtful Madeline; 

The music, yearning like a God in pain. 

She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine, 

Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 

Pass by — she heeded not at all: in vain 

Came many a tiptoe, amourous cavalier, 

And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain. 

But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere: 

She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. 



372 BRITISH POEMS 

She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes, 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: 
The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort 
Of whisperings in anger, or in sport; 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort. 
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn. 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 

So, purposing each moment to retire. 
She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
But for one moment in the tedious hours. 
That he might gaze and worship all unseen; 
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such things have 
been. 

He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell: 

All ej^es be muffled, or a hundred sw^ords 

Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel: 

For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, 

Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, 

Whose very dogs would execrations howl 

Against his lineage: not one breast affords 

Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. 

Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 

Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came. 

Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. 

To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame. 

Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 

The sound of merriment and chorus bland. 

He startled her; but soon she knew his face, 

And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand. 

Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place; 

They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race! 



JOHN KEATS 373 

" Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand; 

He had a fever late, and in the fit 

He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: 

Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 

More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me! flit! 

Flit like a ghost away." — "Ah, Gossip dear, 

We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit. 

And tell me how" — "Good Saints! not here, not here; 

Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." 

He follow'd through a lowly arched way, 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; 
And as she mutter'd "Well-a — Well-a-day!" 
He found him in a little moonlight room. 
Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
"Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
"O tell me, Angela, b^^ the holy loom 
Which none but secret sisterhood may see, 
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." 

"St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve — 

Yet men will murder upon holy days: 

Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve. 

And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 

To venture so: it fills me with amaze 

To see thee, Forphyro! — St. Agnes' Eve! 

God's help! my lady fair the conjurer plays 

This very night; good angels her deceive! 

But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve." 

Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, 

While Forphyro upon her face doth look, 

Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 

Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle-book. 

As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 

But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told 

His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook 

Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold. 

And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 



374 BRITISH POEMS 

Sudden a thought came Hke a full-blown rose. 

Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 

Made purple riot: then doth he propose 

A stratagem, that makes the beldame start: 

"A cruel man and impious thou art: 

Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream 

Alone with her good angels, far apart 

From wicked men like thee. Go, go! — I deem 

Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem." 

"I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," 
Quoth Porphj^ro: "O may I ne'er find grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 
Or look with ruflSan passion in her face: 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears; 
Or I will, even in a moment's space, 
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears. 
And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and 
bears." 

"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul.^ 

A poor, weak, palsy-stricken church-yard thing, 

Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll; 

Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, 

Were never miss'd." Thus plaining, doth she bring 

A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; 

So woful, and of such deep sorrowing. 

That Angela gives promise she will do 

Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy. 

Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 

Him in a closet, of such privacy 

That he might see her beauty unespied. 

And win perhaps that night a peerless bride. 

While legion'd fairies pac'd the coverlet, 

And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 

Never on such a night have lovers met. 

Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. 



JOHN KEATS 375 

"It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame: 
"All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame 
Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare. 
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in praj'er 
The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed, 
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." 

So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. 

The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd; 

The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear 

To follow her; with aged eyes aghast 

From fright of dim espial. Safe at last. 

Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 

The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste; 

Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain. 

His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. 

Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade 

Old Angela was feeling for the stair. 

When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid. 

Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware: 

With silver taper's light, and pious care. 

She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led 

To a safe level matting. Now prepare. 

Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; 

She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled. 

Out went the taper as she hurried in; 

Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: 

She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin 

To spirits of the air, and visions wide: 

No uttered syllable, or, woe betide! 

But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 

Paining with eloquence her balmy side; 

As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 

Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. 



376 BRITISH POEMS 

A casement high and triple arch'd there was, 

x\ll garlanded with carven imageries 

Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass. 

And diamonded with panes of quaint device. 

Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. 

As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; 

And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries. 

And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 

A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings. 

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, 

And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast. 

As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; 

Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest. 

And on her silver cross soft amethyst. 

And on her hair a glory, like a saint: 

She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest. 

Save wings, for heaven: Porphyro grew faint: 

She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. 

Anon his heart revives: her vespers done. 

Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; 

Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one 

Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees 

Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees; 

Half -hidden, like a mermaid in seaweed, 

Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, 

In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 

But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay. 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd 
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; 
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day; 
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain; 
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray; 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 



JOHN KEATS 377 

Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, 

Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 

And hsten'd to her breathing, if it chanced 

To wake into a slumberous tenderness; 

Which when he heard, that minute did he bless. 

And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept, 

Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. 

And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stepped. 

And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo! — how fast she slept. 

Then by the bedside, where the faded moon 

Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 

A table, and, half-anguish'd, threw thereon 

A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: — 

O for some drowsy Morphean amulet! 

The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 

The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet. 

Affray his ears, though but in dying tone: — 

The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep. 
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd. 
While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; 
With jellies soother than the creamy curd. 
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon; 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one. 
From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. 

These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand 

On golden dishes and in baskets bright 

Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand 

In the retired quiet of the night. 

Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — 

"And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! 

Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite: 

Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, 

Or I shall drowse beside thee, so mv soul doth ache." 



378 BRITISH POEMS ^ 

i 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm \ 

Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream i 

By the dusk curtains: — 'twas a midnight charm I 

Impossible to melt as iced stream: j 
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam: 

Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: ■ 

It seem'd he never, never could redeem ' 

From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes; j 

So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. I 

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — j 

Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be, ; 

He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, 

In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans merci:" l 

Close to her ear touching the melody; — ; 

Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan: j 

He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly \ 

Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone: 

Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. 

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, ! 

Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: 

There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd ; 

The blisses of her dream so pure and deep \ 

At which fair Madeline began to weep, I 

And moan forth witless words with many a sigh; 

While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; ' 

Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, \ 

Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. : 

"Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now 

Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, i 

Made tunable with every sweetest vow: ' 

And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear. j 

How chang'd thou art!, how pallid, chill, and drear! j 

Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, i 
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear! 

Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, j 

For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go." ' 



JOHN KEATS 379 

Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far 

At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 

Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star 

Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose; 

Into her dream he melted, as the rose 

Blendeth its odour with the violet, — 

Solution sweet: meantime the frost wind blows 

Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet 

Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set. 

'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: 
**This is no dream, mj^ bride, my Madeline!" 
'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat: 
"No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! 
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. — 
Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? 
I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. 
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing; — 
A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing." 

*'My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! 

Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 

Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dyed.? 

Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 

After so many hours of toil and quest, 

A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 

Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 

Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well 

To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 

"Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land. 
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: 
Arise — arise! the morning is at hand; — 
The bloated wassaillers will never heed: — 
Let us away, my love, with happy speed; 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead: 
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be. 
For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.'* 



380 BRITISH POEMS 3 



She hurried at his words, beset with fears, j 

For there were sleeping dragons all around, | 

At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — i 

Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. — j 

In all the house was heard no human sound. I 

A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door; j 

The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, \ 

Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar; 1 

And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. j 

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall; ! 

Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide; 

Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, j 

With a huge emptj^ flagon by his side: j 

The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, i 

But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: i 

By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide: — ' 

The chains lie silent on the footworn stones; — 

The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. 

i 

And they are gone: ay, ages long ago 

These lovers fled away into the storm. ', 

That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, ' 

And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form j 

Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, j 

Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old i 

Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform; i 

The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, j 

For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold. l 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness. 
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, 

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: 

What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape 



JOHN KEATS 381 

Of deities or mortals, or of both. 

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? 
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; 
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; 

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied, 

For ever piping songs for ever new; 
More happy love! more happy, happy love! 

For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd. 
For ever panting, and for ever young; 
All breathing human passion far above. 

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 

W^ho are these coming to the sacrifice? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 

And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed? 
What little town by river or sea shore. 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel. 
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 

Will silent be; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 



BRITISH POEMS 

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens over wrought, 
With forest branches and the trodden weed; 

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought 
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 

When old age shall this generation waste, 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe- wards had sunk: 
' Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. 
But being too happy in thine happiness. — 
That thou, light winged Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been 

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
Tasting of Flora and the country green. 

Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! 
O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim. 
And purple-stained mouth; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen. 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim; 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou amongst the leaves hast never known. 

The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; 



JOHN KEATS 383 

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 

Where j'outh grows pale, and spectre- thin, and dies; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-ej^ed despairs. 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away! away! for I will fly to thee. 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: 
Already with thee! tender is the night. 

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; 
But here there is no light, 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; 
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; 
And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. 

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 

Darkling I listen; and, for 'many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme. 

To take into the air my quiet breath; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die. 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 



384 BRITISH POEMS 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 

No hungry generations tread thee down; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home. 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 

Past the near meadows, over the still stream. 
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades: 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream. f^ 

Fled is that music: — Do I wake or sleep? 



LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 

BALLAD 

O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms. 

Alone and palely loitering! 
The sedge has wither'd from the lake. 

And no birds sing. 

what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! 
So haggard and so woe-begone .'^ 

The squirrel's granary is full, 
And the harvest's done. 

1 see a lily on thy brow 

With anguish moist and fever dew. 
And on thy cheeks a fading rose 
Fast withereth too. 



JOHN KEATS 385 

I met a lady in the meads, 

Full beautiful — a faery's child, 
Her hair was long, her foot was light, 

And her eyes were wild. 

I made a garland for her head. 

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; 

She look'd at me as she did love. 
And made sweet moan. 

I set her on my pacing steed, 

And nothing else saw all day long. 
For sidelong would she bend, and sing 

A faery's song. 

She found me roots of relish sweet. 

And honey wild, and manna dew. 
And sure in language strange she said — 

"I love thee true." 

She took me to her elfin grot, 

And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore. 
And there I shut her wild wild eyes 

With kisses four. 

And there she lulled me asleep. 

And there I dream'd— Ah! woe betide! 

The latest dream I ever dream'd 
On the cold hill's side. 

I saw pale kings and princes too. 

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; 

They cried— "La Belle Dame sans Merci 
Hath thee in thrall!" 

I saw their starv'd lips in the gloom, 

With horrid warning gaped wide, 
And I awoke and found me here, 

On the cold hill's side. 



1 



386 BRITISH POEMS 



And this is whj^ I sojourn here, \ 

Alone and palely loitering, ; 

Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake 

And no birds sing. ] 



BRIGHT STAR 

Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art- 

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night. 

And watching, with eternal lids apart. 

Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, 

The moving waters at their priestlike task 

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores. 

Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors — 

No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, 

Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, 

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell. 

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest. 

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath. 

And so live ever — or else swoon to death. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY [1792-1822] 

MUSIC, WHEN SOFT VOICES DIE 

Music, when soft voices die. 
Vibrates in the memory — 
Odours, when sweet violets sicken. 
Live within the sense they quicken. 

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead. 
Are heaped for the beloved's bed; 
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone 
Love itself shall slumber on. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 387 



OZYMANDIAS 

I MET a traveller from an antique land 
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone 
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand. 
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown. 
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command. 
Tell that its scupltor well those passions read 
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things. 
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed; 
And on the pedestal these words appear: 
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: 
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" 
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare 
The lone and level sands stretch far away. 



TO A SKYLARK 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! 

Bird thou never wert. 
That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strain of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest 

Like a cloud of fire; 

The blue deep thou wingest. 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun. 
O'er which clouds are brightning. 

Thou dost float and run; 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 



388 BRITISH POEMS 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight; 
Like a star of heaven, 

In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight, 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear. 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud, 
As, when night is bare. 

From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 

What thou art we know not; 

What is most like thee? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 

Drops so bright to see, 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought. 
Singing hymns unbidden, 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace-tower. 
Soothing her love-laden 

Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew. 
Scattering unbeholden 

Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 389 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves, 
By warm winds deflowered. 

Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves : 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass. 
Rain-awakened flowers, 

All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass: 

Teach us, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine: 
I have never heard 

Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus Hymeneal, 

Or triumphal chaunt, 
Matched with thine would be all 
But an empty vaunt, 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain? 
What fields, or waves, or mountains? 

What shapes of sky or plain? 
W'hat love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be: 
Shadow of annoyance 

Never came near thee: 
Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep. 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 

Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 



390 BRITISH POEMS 

We look before and after, 

And pine for what is not: 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear: 
If we were things born 

Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound, 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found, 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 

From my lips would flow. 
The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 



THE CLOUD 

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 

From the seas and the streams; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet buds every one. 
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail. 

And whiten the green plains under. 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 391 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast, 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, 

Lightning, my pilot, sits. 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, 

It struggles and howls at fits; 
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion. 

This pilot is guiding me. 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. 

Over the lakes and the plains. 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 

The Spirit he loves remains; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile. 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes. 

And his burning plumes outspread. 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack. 

When the morning star shines dead, 
As on the jag of a mountain crag. 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings. 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 

Its ardours of rest and of love, 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above. 
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest. 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden with white fire laden. 

Whom mortals call the moon, 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor. 

By the midnight breezes strewn; 



392 BRITISH POEMS 

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 

The stars peep behind her and peer; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. 

Like a swarm of golden bees. 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent. 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high. 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone. 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim. 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape. 

Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof. 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march 

With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
When the powers of the air are chained to mj' chair. 

Is the million-coloured bow; 
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, 

While the moist earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of earth and water. 

And the nursling of the sky; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when with never a stain 

The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, 

Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain. 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 

I arise and unbuild it again. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 393 



ODE TO THE WEST WIND 



O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, 
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
Are driven, Kke ghosts from an enchanter fleemg. 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou. 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low. 
Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
With living hues and odours plain and hill; 

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; 
Destroyer and preserver; hear. Oh hear! 



II 

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed. 
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge. 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge 

Of the horizon to the zenith's height 

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 

Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre. 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 



394 BRITISH POEMS 

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere 

Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: Oh hear! 



Ill 



Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams. 

Beside a pumice isle in Baise's bay. 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intenser day. 

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou 

For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear. 
And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear! 



IV 



If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; 

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; 

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, 

As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 

Scarce seemed a vision ; I would ne'er have striven 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 395 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh Hft me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! 
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! 

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed 
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. 



Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: 
^Yhat if my leaves are falling like its own! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 

AYill take from both a deep, autumnal tone, 
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, 
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! 
And, by the incantation of this verse, 

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! 
Be through my lips to unawakened earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy! O, wind, 

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 



TO NIGHT 

Swiftly walk over the western wave. 

Spirit of Night! 
Out of thy misty eastern cave, 
Where all the long and lone daylight. 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear. 
Which make thee terrible and dear, — 

Swift be thy flight! 



596 BRITISH POEMS 

AYrap thy form in a mantle gray, 

Star-inwrought ! 
BHnd with thine hair the eyes of Day; 
Kiss her until she be wearied out, 
Then wander o'er eity, and sea, and land 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 

Come, long sought! 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sighed for thee; 
When light rode high, and the dew was gone. 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree. 
And the weary Day turned to his rest. 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 

I sighed for thee. 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 

AVouldst thou me? 
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed. 
Murmured like a noontide bee. 
Shall I nestle near thy side? 
Wouldst thou me? — And I replied, 

No, not thee! 

Death will come when thou art dead 

Soon, too soon — 
Sleep will come when thou art fled; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 

Come soon, soon! 



LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR 

I ARISE from dreams of thee 
In the first sweet sleep of night. 
When the winds are breathing low, 
And the stars are shining bright: 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 397 

I arise from dreams of thee, 
And a spirit in my feet 
Hath led me — who knows how? 
To thy chamber window, Sweet! 

The wandering airs they faint 
On the dark, the silent stream — 
The champak odours fail 
Like sweet thoughts in a dream; 
The nightingale's complaint 
It dies upon her heart, 
As I must die on thine, 
O beloved as thou art! 

lift me from the grass! 

1 die, I faint, I fail! 

Let thy love in kisses rain 
On my lips and eyelids pale. 
My cheek is cold and white, alas! 
My heart beats loud and fast; 
Oh! press it close to thine again. 
Where it will break at last. 



ADONAIS 

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS 

kaTTip irplv iiiv eXafxires ivi ^woiaiv 'Ewos. 
'NOu de davwv \d/t7reis " E<T7repos iv (pdiix4vois. 

Plato. 
I WEEP for Adonais — he is dead! 
Oh weep for Adonais! though our tears 
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head! 
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years 
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers. 
And teach them thine own sorrow! Say: "With me 
Died Adonais; till the Future dares 
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be 
An echo and a light unto eternity!" 



398 BRITISH POEMS 

Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay, 

When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies 

In darkness? where was lorn Urania 

When Adonais died? With veiled eyes, 

'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise 

She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath, 

Rekindled all the fading melodies 

With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath. 

He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death. 

Oh weep for Adonais — he is dead! 

Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep! 

Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed 

Thy fiery tears, and let thy lov'd heart keep. 

Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep; 

For he is gone, where all things wise and fair 

Descend; — oh, dream not that the amourous Deep 

Will yet restore him to the vital air; 

Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair. 

Most musical of mourners, weep again 

Lament anew, Urania! — He died. 

Who was the Sire of an immortal strain. 

Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride, 

The priest, the slave, and the liberticide. 

Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite 

Of lust and blood; he w^ent, unterrified, 

Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite 

Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of light. 

Most musical of mourners, weep anew! 

Not all to that bright station dared to climb; 

And happier they their happiness who knew, 

Whose tapers j'^et burn through that night of time 

In which suns perished; others more sublime, 

Struck by the envious wrath of man or God, 

Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime; 

And some yet live, treading the thorny road. 

Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 399 

But now, thy youngest, dearest one has perished, 
The nursHng of thy widowhood, who grfew. 
Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished. 
And fed with true love tears, instead of dew; 
Most musical of mourners, weep anew! 
Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last. 
The bloom, whose petals nipt before they blew 
Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste; 
The broken lily lies — the storm is overpast. 

To that high Capital, where kingly Death 

Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay. 

He came; and bought, with price of purest breath, 

A grave among the eternal. — Come away! 

Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day 

Is yet his fitting charnel-roof ! while still 

He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay; 

Awake him not! surely he takes his fill 

Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. 

He will awake no more, oh, never more! — 

Within the twilight chamber spreads apace. 

The shadow of white Death, and at the door 

Invisible Corruption waits to trace 

His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place; 

The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe 

Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface 

So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law 

Of change shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain draw. 

Oh weep for Adonais! — The quick Dreams, 

The passion-winged Ministers of thought, 

Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams 

Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught 

The love which was its music, wander not, — 

Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain. 

But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their lot 

Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain, 

They ne'er will gather strength, or find a home again. 



400 BRITISH POEMS 1 

And one with trembling hands clasps his cold head, I 

And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries; I 

"Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead; j 

See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes, j 

Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies I 
A tear some Dream has loosened from his brain." 

Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise! i 

She knew not 'twas her own; as with no stain j 

She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain. I 

j 
One from a lucid urn of starry dew 

Washed his light limbs as if embalming them; 

Another dipt her profuse locks, and threw 

The wreath upon him, like an anadem. 

Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem; , 

Another in her wilful grief would break ' 

Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem i 

A greater loss with one which was more weak; 

And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek. , 

Another Splendour on his mouth alit, i 

That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath 

Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit, ! 

And pass into the panting heart beneath 

With lightning and with music: the damp death 

Quenched its caress upon his icy lips; 

And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath 

Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips. 

It flushed through his pale limbs, and passed to its eclipse. 

And others came . . . Desires and Adorations, 

Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies, \ 

Splendours and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations 

Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies; 

And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, 

And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam | 

Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, I 

Came in slow pomp; — the moving pomp might seem 

Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 401 

All he had loved, and moulded into thought, 

From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound. 

Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 

Her eastern watchtower, and her hair unbound, 

Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground, 

Dimmed the aerial eyes that kindle day; 

Afar the melancholy thunder moaned. 

Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber Ielj, 

And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay. 

Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains. 

And feeds her grief with his remembered lay. 

And will no more reply to winds or fountains. 

Or amourous birds perched on the young green spray. 

Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day; 

Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear 

Than those for whose disdain she pined away 

Into a shadow of all sounds: — a drear 

Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear. 

Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down 

Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were, 

Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown 

For whom should she have waked the sullen year.'' 

To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear 

Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both ^ 

Thou Adonais: wan they stand and sere 

Amid the faint companions of their youth. 

With dew all turned to tears; odour, to sighing ruth. 

Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale. 

Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain; 

Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale 

Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's domain 

Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain, 

Soaring and screaming round her empty nest. 

As Albion wails for thee; the curse of Cain 

Light on his head who pierced thy innocent breast 

And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest! 



402 BRITISH POEMS 

Ah woe is me! Winter is come and gone, 

But grief returns with the revolving year; 

The airs and streams renew their joyous tone: 

The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear; 

Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Season's bier; 

The amourous birds now pair in every brake, 

And build their mossy homes in field and brere; 

And the green lizard, and the golden snake, 

Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance awake. 

Through wood and stream and field and hill and Ocean 
A quickening life from the Earth's heart has burst 
As it has ever done, with change and motion. 
From the great morning of the world when first 
God dawned on Chaos; in its stream immersed 
The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light; 
All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst; 
Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's delight. 
The beauty and the joy of their renewed might. 

The leprous corpse touched by this spirit tender 

Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath; 

Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour 

Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death 

And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath; 

Nought we know, dies. Shall that alone which knows 

Be as a sword consumed before the sheath 

By sightless lightning? — th' intense atom glows 

A moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose. 

Alas! that all we loved of him should be 

But for our grief, as if it had not been. 

And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me! 

Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene 

The actors or spectators? Great and mean 

Meet massed in death, who lends what life must borrow. 

As long as skies are blue, and fields are green. 

Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow. 

Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 403 

He will awake no more, oh, never more! 

"Wake thou," cried Misery, "childless Mother, rise 

Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's core, 

A wound more fierce than his with tears and sighs." 

And all the Dreams that watched Urania's eyes. 

And all the Echoes whom their sister's song 

Had held in holy silence, cried: "Arise!" 

Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung. 

From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour- sprung. 

She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs 

Out of the East, and follows wild and drear 

The golden Day, which, on eternal wings, 

Even as a ghost abandoning a bier. 

Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear 

So struck, so roused, so rapt LTrania; 

So saddened round her like an atmosphere 

Of stormy mist; so swept her on her way 

Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay. 

Out of her secret Paradise she sped. 

Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel. 

And human hearts, which to her airy tread 

Yielding not, wounded the invisible 

Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell: 

And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they 

Rent the soft Form they never could repel. 

Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May, 

Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving way. 

In the death chamber for a moment Death 

Shamed by the presence of that living Might 

Blushed to annihilation, and the breath 

Revisited those lips, and life's pale light 

Flashed through those limbs, so late her dear delight. 

"Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless, 

As silent lightning leaves the starless night! 

Leave me not!" cried Urania: her distress 

Roused Death: Death rose and smiled, and met her vain caress. 



404 BRITISH POEMS 

"Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again; 

Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live; 

And in my heartless breast and burning brain 

That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts else survive, 

With food of saddest memory kept alive, 

Now thou art dead, as if it were a part 

Of thee, my Adonais! I would give 

All that I am to be as thou now art! 

But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart! 

"O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert. 

Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men 

Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart 

Dare the unpastured dragon in his den? 

Defenceless as thou wert, oh where was then 

Wisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn the spear? 

Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when 

Thy spirit should have filled its crescent sphere. 

The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee like deer. 

"The herded wolves, bold only to pursue; 

The obscene ravens, clamourous o'er the dead; 

The vultures to the conqueror's banner true 

Who feed where Desolation first has fed. 

And whose wings rain contagion; — how they fled. 

When like Apollo, from his golden bow. 

The Pythian of the age one arrow sped 

And smiled! — The spoilers tempt no second blow. 

They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them lying low. 

"The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn; 

He sets, and each ephemeral insect then 

Is gathered into death without a dawn, 

And the immortal stars awake again; 

So is it in the world of living men: 

A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight 

Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when 

It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or shared its light 

Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's awful night." 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 405 

Thus ceased she: and the mountain shepherds came, 

Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent; 

The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame 

Over his living head like Heaven is bent, 

An earl}' but enduring monument. 

Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song 

In sorrow; from her wilds I erne sent 

The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, 

And love taught grief to fall like music from his tongue. 

Midst others of less note, came one frail Form, 

A phantom among men; companionless 

As the last cloud of an expiring storm 

Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess, 

Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, 

Actseon-like, and now he fled astray 

With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness. 

And his own thoughts, along that rugged way. 

Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey. 

A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift — 

A Love in desolation masked; — a Power 

Girt round with weakness; — it can scarce uplift 

The weight of the superincumbent hour; 

It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, 

A breaking billow; — even whilst we speak 

Is it not broken? On the withering flower 

The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek 

The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break. 

His head was bound with pansies over-blown. 

And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue; 

And a light spear topped with a cypress cone. 

Round whose rude shaft dark ivy tresses grew 

Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew. 

Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart 

Shook the weak hand that grasped it; of that crew 

He came the last, neglected and apart; 

A herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunter's dart. 



406 BRITISH POEMS 

All stood aloof, and at his partial moan 

Smiled through their tears; well knew that gentle band 

Who in another's fate now wept his own; 

As in the accents of an unknown land, 

He sung new sorrow; sad Urania scanned 

The Stranger's mien, and murmured: "Who art thou?" 

He answered not, but with a sudden hand 

Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow. 

Which was like Cain's or Christ's— oh, that it should be so! 

What softer voice is hushed over the dead? 

Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown? 

What form leans sadly o'er the white deathbed, 

In mockery of monumental stone, 

The heavy heart heaving without a moan? 

If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise. 

Taught, soothed, loved, honoured the departed one; 

Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs 

The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice. 

Our Adonais has drunk poison — oh! 

What deaf and viperous murderer could crown 

Life's early cup with such a draught of woe? 

The nameless worm would now itself disown: 

It felt, yet could escape the magic tone 

Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong, 

But what was howling in one breast alone. 

Silent with expectation of the song, 

Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung. 

Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame! 

Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me, 

Thou noteless blot on a remembered name! 

But be thyself, and know thyself to be! 

And ever at thy season be thou free 

To spill the venom when thy fangs o'erflow: 

Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee; 

Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, 

And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt — as now. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 407 

Nor let us weep that our delight is fled 

Far from these carrion kites that scream below; 

He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead; 

Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now. — 

Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow 

Back to the burning fountain whence it came, 

A portion of the Eternal, which must glow 

Through time and change, unquenchably the same, 

Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of shame. 

Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep — 

He hath awakened from the dream of life — 

'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep 

With phantoms an unprofitable strife, 

And in mad trance, strike with our spirit's knife 

Invulnerable nothings. — We decay 

Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief 

Convulse us and consume us day by day. 

And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay. 

He has outsoared the shadow of our night; 
Envy and calumny and hate and pain. 
And that unrest which men miscall delight. 
Can touch him not and torture not again; 
From the contagion of the world's slow stain 
He is secure, and now can never mourn 
A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain; 
Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn. 
With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. 

He lives, he wakes — 'tis Death is dead, not he; 

Mourn not for Adonais, — Thou young Dawn 

Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee 

The spirit thou lamentest is not gone; 

Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan! 

Cease ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air 

Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown 

O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave it bare 

Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair! 



408 BRITISH POEMS 

He is made one with Nature: there is heard 
His voice in all her music, from the moan 
Of thunder to the song of night's sweet bird; 
He is a presence to be felt and known 
In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, 
Spreading itself where'er that Power may move 
Which has withdrawn his being to its own; 
Which wields the world with never wearied love, 
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. 

He is a portion of the loveliness 

Which once he made more lovelj^: he doth bear 

His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress 

Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there 

All new successions to the forms they wear; 

Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its flight 

To its own likeness, as each mass may bear; 

And bursting in its beauty and its might 

From trees and beasts and men into the Heaven's light. 

The splendours of the firmament of time 

May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not; 

Like stars to their appointed height they climb 

And death is a low mist which cannot blot 

The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought 

Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair. 

And love and life contend in it, for what 

Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there 

And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air. 

The inheritors of unfulfilled renown 

Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought. 

Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton 

Rose pale, his solemn agony had not 

Yet faded from him; Sidney, as he fought 

And as he fell and as he lived and loved 

Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot. 

Arose; and Lucan, by his death approved: 

Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 409 

And many more, whose names on Earth are dark 

But whose transmitted effluence cannot die 

So long as fire outHves the parent spark. 

Rose, robed in dazzHng immortahty. 

"Thou art become as one of us," they cry, 

"It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long 

Swung blind in unascended majesty. 

Silent alone amid an Heaven of Song. 

Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our throng!" 

Who mourns for Adonais? Oh come forth 

Fond wretch! and know thyself and him aright. 

Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous Earth; 

As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light 

Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might 

Satiate the void circumference: then shrink 

Even to a point within our day and night; 

And keep thy heart light lest it make thee sink 

When hope has kindled hope, and lured thee to the brink. 

Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre 
Oh! not of him, but of our joy: 'tis nought 
That ages, empires, and religions there 
Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought; 
For such as he can lend, — they borrow not 
Glory from those who made the world their prey; 
And he is gathered to the kings of thought 
Who waged contention with their time's decay, 
And of the past are all that cannot pass away. 

Go thou to Rome, — at once the Paradise, 

The grave, the city, and the wilderness; 

And where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise. 

And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses dress 

The bones of Desolation's nakedness. 

Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead 

Thy footsteps to a slope of green access 

Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead 

A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread. 



410 BRITISH POEMS 

And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time 

Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand; 

And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime. 

Pavilioning the dust of him who planned 

This refuge for his memory, doth stand 

Like flame transformed to marble; and beneath, 

A field is spread, on which a newer band 

Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of death 

Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath. 

Here pause: these graves are all too young as yet 
To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned 
Its charge to each; and if the seal is set. 
Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind. 
Break it not thou! too surely shalt thou find 
Thine own well full, if thou returnest home. 
Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind 
Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. 
What Adonais is, why fear we to become.-^ 

The One remains, the many change and pass; 

Heaven's light forever shines. Earth's shadows fly; 

Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass. 

Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 

Until Death tramples it to fragments. — Die, 

If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek! 

Follow where all is fled! — Rome's azure sky. 

Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak 

The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak. 

Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart .^ 

Thy hopes are gone before: from all things here 

They have departed; thou shouldst now depart! 

A light is past from the revolving year, 

And man, and woman; and what still is dear 

Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. 

The soft sky smiles, — the low wind whispers near; 

'Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither. 

No more let Life divide what Death can join together. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 411 

That Light whose smile kindles the Universe, 
That Beauty in which all things work and move. 
That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse 
Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love 
Which through the web of being blindly wove 
By man and beast and earth and air and sea. 
Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of 
The fire for which all thirst; now beams on me. 
Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality. 

The breath whose might I have invoked in song 

Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven. 

Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng 

Whose sails were never to the tempest given; 

The massy earth and sphered skies are riven! 

I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar; 

W^hilst burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, 

The soul of Adonais, like a star. 

Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. 



DIRGE 

Rough wind, that moanest loud 

Grief too sad for song; 
Wild wind, when sullen cloud 

Knells all the night long; 
Sad storm, whose tears are vain. 
Bare woods, whose branches strain. 
Deep caves and dreary main, 

Wail, for the world's wrong! 



412 BRITISH POEMS 

THOMAS HOOD [1798-1845] 

FAIR INES 

O SAW ye not fair Ines? 
She's gone into the West, 
To dazzle when the sun is down, 
And rob the world of rest: 
She took our daylight with her. 
The smiles that we love best. 
With morning blushes on her cheek. 
And pearls upon her breast. 

turn again, fair Ines, 
Before the fall of night. 

For fear the Moon should shine alone, 

And stars unrivaled bright; 

And blessed will the lover be 

That walks beneath their light. 

And breathes the love against thy cheek 

1 dare not even write! 

Would I had been, fair Ines, 

That gallant cavalier. 

Who rode so gaily by thy side. 

And whispered thee so near! — 

Were there no bonny dames at home 

Or no true lovers here. 

That he should cross the seas to win 

The dearest of the dear? 

I saw thee, lovely Ines, 

Descend along the shore. 

With bands of noble gentlemen, 

And banners waved before; 

And gentle youth and maidens gay, 

And snowy plumes they wore; — 

It would have been a beauteous dream, 

— If it had been no more! 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 413 

Alas, alas! fair Ines, 

She went away with song. 

With Music waiting on her steps. 

And shoutings of the throng; 

But some were sad and felt no mirth, 

But only Music's wrong, 

In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell 

To her you've loved so long. 

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines! 

That vessel never bore 

So fair a lady on its deck, 

Nor danced so light before, — 

Alas for pleasure on the sea, 

And sorrow on the shore! 

The smile that blest one lover's heart 

Has broken many more! 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON [1809-1892] 
THE LADY OF SHALOTT 

PART I 

On either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye, 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky; 
And thro' the field the road runs by 

To many-tower'd Camelot; 
And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below. 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver. 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Thro' the wave that runs for ever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 



414 BRITISH POEMS 

Four gray walls, and four gray towers. 
Overlook a space of flowers. 
And the silent isle imbowers 
The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veil'd, 
Slide the heavy barges trail'd 
By slow horses; and unhail'd 
The shallop fiitteth silken-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot; 
But who hath seen her wave her hand? 
Or at the casement seen her stand? 
Or is she known in all the land. 

The Lady of Shalott? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley. 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river winding clearly, 

Down to tower'd Camelot; 
And by the moon the reaper weary. 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy. 
Listening, whispers '"T is the fairy 

Lady of Shalott." 

PART II 

There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colours gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be. 
And so she weaveth steadily. 
And little other care hath she, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year. 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 415 

Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot; 
There the river eddy whirls. 
And there the surly village-churls, 
And the red cloaks of market girls. 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad. 
An abbot on an ambling pad, 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad. 
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad. 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot; 
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two: 
She hath no loyal knight and true. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights. 
For often thro' the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights 

And music, went to Camelot; 
Or when the moon was overhead. 
Came two young lovers lately wed: 
"I am half sick of shadows," said / 

The Lady of Shalott. 

PART III 

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves. 
He rode between the barley-sheaves. 
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves. 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd 
To a lady in his shield. 
That sparkled on the yellow field. 

Beside remote Shalott. 



416 BRITISH POEMS 

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the golden Galaxy. 
The bridle bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot; 
And from his blazon'd baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armour rung. 

Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burn'd like one burning flame together. 

As he rode down to Camelot; 
As often thro' the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright, 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light. 

Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; 
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; 
From underneath his helmet flow'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode. 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
"Tirra lirra," by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom, 
She made three paces thro' the room. 
She saw the water-lily bloom. 
She saw the helmet and the plume. 

She look'd down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide; 
The mirror crack'd from side to side; 
"The curse is come upon me," cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 417 

PART IV 

In the stormy east-wind straining. 

The pale yellow woods were waning. 

The broad stream in his banks complaining. 

Heavily the low sky raining 

Over tower'd Camelot; 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat. 
And round about the prow she wrote 

The Lady of Shalott 

And down the river's dim expanse 
Like some bold seer in a trance, 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay; 
The broad stream bore her far away, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot; 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among. 
They heard her singing her last song. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy. 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly. 
Till her blood was frozen slowly 
And her eyes were darken'd wholly 

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. 
For ere she' reach'd upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side. 
Singing in her song she died. 

The Lady of Shalott. 



418 BRITISH POEMS 



Under tower and balcony. 

By garden-wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape she floated by. 

Dead-pale between the houses high, 

Silent into Camelot. 
Out upon the wharfs they came. 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame. 
And round the prow they read her name, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this? and what is here? 
And in the lighted palace near 
Died the sound of royal cheer, 
And they cross'd themselves for fear. 

All the Knights at Camelot: 
But Lancelot mused a little space; 
He said, "She has a lovely face; 
God in his mercy lend her grace. 

The Lady of Shalott." 



THE LOTOS-EATERS 

"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land, 
"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." 
In the afternoon they came unto a land 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did swoon. 
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; 
And, like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. 

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke. 

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; 

And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke. 

Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 

From the inner land; far off, three mountain-tops. 

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 419 

Stood sunset-flush'd; and, dew'd with showery drops, 
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. 

The charmed sunset Hnger'd low adown 

In the red West; thro' mountain clefts the dale 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 

Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale 

And meadow, set with slender galingale; 

A land where all things always seem'd the same! 

And round about the keel with faces pale. 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame. 

The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. 

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem. 

Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave 

To each, but whoso did receive of them 

And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 

Far far away did seem to mourn and rave 

On alien shores; and if his fellow spake. 

His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; 

And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake. 

And music in his ears his beating heart did make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow sand. 
Between the sun and moon upon the shore; 
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, 
Of child, and wife and slave; but evermore 
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar. 
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
Then some one said, "We will return no more;'* 
And all at once they sang, "Our island home 
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam." 

CHORIC SONG 

There is sweet music here that softer falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the grass. 
Or night-dews on still waters between walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; 



420 BRITISH POEMS 

Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, 

Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes; 

Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. 

Here are cool mosses deep. 

And thro' the moss the ivies creep, 

And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, 

And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. 

Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, 

And utterly consumed with sharp distress, 

While all things else have rest from weariness? 

All things have rest: why should we toil alone. 

We only toil, who are the first of things, 

An4 make perpetual moan. 

Still from one sorrow to another thrown; 

Nor ever fold our wings. 

And cease from wanderings. 

Nor steep our brows in slumber's hol^' balm; 

Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, 

"There is no joy but calm!" — 

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things.'^ 

Lo! in the middle of the wood. 

The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud 

With winds upon the branch, and there 

Grows green and broad, and takes no care, 

Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 

Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow 

Falls, and floats adown the air. 

Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light. 

The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow. 

Drops in a silent autumn night. 

All its allotted length of days 

The flower ripens in its place. 

Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil. 

Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 

Hateful is the dark-blue sky. 
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 421 

Death is the end of hfe; ah, why 

Should hfe all labour be? 

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast. 

And in a little while our lips are dumb. 

Let us alone. What is it that will last? 

All things are taken from us, and become 

Portions and parcels of the dreadful past. 

Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 

To war with evil? Is there any peace 

In ever climbing up the climbing wave? 

All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave 

In silence — ripen, fall, and cease: 

Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful easCo 

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, 

With half-shut eyes ever to seem 

Falling asleep in a half-dream! 

To dream and dream, like yonder amber light. 

Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; 

To hear each other's whisper'd speech; 

Eating the Lotos day by day. 

To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, 

And tender curving lines of creamy spray; 

To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 

To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; 

To muse and brood and live again in memory, 

With those old faces of our infancy 

Heap'd over with a mound of grass. 

Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! 

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives. 

And dear the last embraces of our wives 

And their warm tears; but all hath suffer'd change; 

For surely now our household hearths are cold. 

Our sons inherit us, our looks are strange. 

And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. 

Or else the island princes over-bold 

Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings 

Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, 



422 BRITISH POEMS I 

1 

And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. j 

Is there confusion in the little isle? ! 

Let what is broken so remain. \ 

The Gods are hard to reconcile; ^ 

'T is hard to settle order once again. i 

There is confusion worse than death, j 

Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, I 

Long labour unto aged breath, i 

Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars \ 
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. 
But, propped on beds of amaranthe and moly. 
How sweet — while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly — 
With half-dropped eyelid still. 

Beneath a heaven dark and holy, i 

To watch the long bright river drawing slowly ' 

His waters from the purple hill — ] 

To hear the dewy echoes calling j 

From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine — | 
To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling 

Thro' many a woven acanthus-wreath divine! , 

Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, , 

Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine. | 

i 

The Lotos blooms below the barren peak, \ 
The Lotos blows by every winding creek; 

All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone; ' , 

Thro' everj^ hollow cave and alley lone ] 

Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. i 

We have had enough of action, and of motion we, '• 
Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was 

seething free. 
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in 

the sea. j 

Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, ] 

In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined I 

On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. 1 

For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd \ 

Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd I 

Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world; I 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 423 

Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, 
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and 

fiery sands. 
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and 

praying hands. 
But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, 
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil. 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; 
Till they perish and they suffer — some, 't is whisper'd — down 

in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore 
Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; 
O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. 



ULYSSES 

It little profits that an idle king. 

By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race. 

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. 

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink 

Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd 

Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those 

That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when 

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 

Vext the dim sea; I am become a name; 

For always roaming with a hungry heart 

Much have I seen and known; cities of men. 

And manners, climates, councils, governments, 

Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers. 

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met. 



424 BRITISH POEMS 

Yet all experience is an arch where-thro' 

Gleans that untravell'd world, whose margin fades 

Forever and forever when I move. 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! 

As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 

Little remains: but ever^^ hour is saved 

From that eternal silence, something more, 

A bringer of new things; and vile it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 

And this grey spirit yearning in desire 

To follow knowledge like a sinking star, 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods. 
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners. 
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old; 
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; 
Death closes all: but something ere the end. 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: 
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep 
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends 
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order smite 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 425 

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds 

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 

Of all the western stars, until I die. 

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: 

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' 

We are not now that strength which in old days 

Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; 

One equal temper of heroic hearts, 

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 



TEARS, IDLE TEARS 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean. 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy autumn-fields. 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail. 
That brings our friends up from the underworld. 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remember'd kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
On lips that are for others; deep as love. 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more! 

[Song from The Princess.] 



426 BRITISH POEMS 



BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 

Break, break, break, 

On thy cold grey stones, O Sea! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at play! 

O well for the sailor lad. 

That he sings in his boat on the bay! 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill; 
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand. 

And the sound of a voice that is still! 

Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 



MORTE D'ARTHUR 

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter sea; 
Until King Arthur's table, man by man, 
Had fallen in Lyonness about their Lord, 
King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep. 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him. 
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights. 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross. 
That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 
"The sequel of to-day unsolders all 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 427 

The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 

Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 

They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we 

Shall nevermore, at any future time. 

Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, 

Walking about the gardens and the halls 

Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 

I perish by this people which I made, — 

Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again 

To rule once more — but let what will be, be, 

I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 

That without help I cannot last till morn. 

Thou therefore take mj^ brand Excalibur, 

Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how 

In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 

Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 

Holding the sword — and how I row'd across 

And took it, and have worn it like a king: 

And, wheresoever I am sung or told 

In aftertime, this also shall be known: 

But now delay not: take Excalibur, 

And fling him far into the middle mere: 

Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word." 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: 
"It is not meet. Sir King, to leave thee thus. 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full. 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept 
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs. 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men. 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down 
By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock. 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, 



428 BRITISH POEMS 

Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks. 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood. 
This way and that dividing the swift mind. 
In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted water-flags. 
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 
"Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave? 
What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?" 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
*'I heard the ripple washing in the reeds. 
And the wild water lapping on the crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale: 
"Thou hast betray 'd thy nature and thy name, 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: 
For surer sign had followed, either hand. 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word." 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere. 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt. 
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud, 

"And if indeed I cast the brand away. 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note. 
Should thus be lost forever from the earth. 
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. 
What good should follow this, if this were done? 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 429 

What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey. 

Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 

Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 

An act unprofitable, against himself? 

The King is sick, and knows not what he does. 

What record, or what relic of my lord 

Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 

And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept. 

Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings. 

Some one might show it at a joust of arms. 

Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 

Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 

Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 

Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 

So might some old man speak in the aftertime 

To all the people, winning reverence. 

But now much honour and much fame were lost." 

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, 
And hid Excalibur the second time, 
And so strode back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily: 
"What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?'* 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
*'I heard the water lapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath: 
**Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! 
Authority forgets a dying king. 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art. 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights. 
In whom should meet the oflSces of all. 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice. 
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence: 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 



430 BRITISH POEMS ' 

I will arise and slay thee with my hands." 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and elutch'd the sword. 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon. 
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn. 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur: 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 

Then spoke King iVrthur, drawing thicker breath: 
"Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?" 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
"Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw. 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men. 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him; 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere." 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard: 
"My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight. 
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 

So sajdng, from the pavement he half rose. 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 431 

Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found not words, 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, 
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 

But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quick! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd. 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him, like a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 
And on a sudden, lo! the level lake. 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge. 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern. 
Beneath them; and descending they were ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream— by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold — and from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars. 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 

Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge," 
And to the barge they came. There those three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap. 
And loosed the shattered casque, and chafed his hands, 



432 BRITISH POEMS 

And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, 

And dropping bitter tears against his brow 

Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white 

And colourless, and like the wither'd moon 

Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east; 

And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops 

Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls — 

That made his forehead like a rising sun 

High from the dais-throne — were parch'd with dust; 

Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 

Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. 

So like a shatter'd column lay the King; 

Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest. 

From spur to plume a star of tournament. 

Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 

Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, 
"Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? 
For now I see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble chance. 
And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole Round Table is dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty world; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless, 
And the days darken round me, and the years. 
Among new men, strange faces, other minds." 

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge: 
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new. 
And God fulfils Himself in many ways. 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May He within Himself make pure! but thou. 
If thou shouldst never see my face again. 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by praj^er 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 433 

Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a bhnd hfe within the brain, 
If, knowing God, they Hft not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them friend? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way, 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 
To the island-valley of Avilion; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea. 
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." 
So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn. 
And on the mere the wailing died away. 



IN MEMORIAM A. H. H. 

OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII 

Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 
Whom we, that have not seen thy face. 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace, 

Believing where we cannot prove; 

Thine are these orbs of light and shade; 

Thou madest Life in man and brute; 

Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot 
Is on the skull which thou hast made. 



434 BRITISH POEMS 

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: 
Thou madest man, he knows not why. 
He thinks he was not made to die; 

And thou hast made him: thou art just. 

Thou seemest human and divine, 
The highest, holiest manhood, thou. 
Our wills are ours, we know not how; 

Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 

Our little systems have their day; 

They have their day and cease to be; 

They are but broken lights of thee. 
And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 

We have but faith: we cannot know, 
For knowledge is of things we see; 
And yet we trust it comes from thee, 

A beam in darkness: let it grow. 

Let knowledge grow from more to more. 
But more of reverence in us dwell; 
Tliat mind and soul, according well, 

May make one music as before. 

But vaster. We are fools and slight; 
We mock thee when we do not fear: 
But help thy foolish ones to bear; 

Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me. 
What seem'd my worth since I began; 
For merit lives from man to man. 

And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 

Forgive my grief for one removed, 
Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 
I trust he lives in Thee, and there 

I find him worthier to be loved. 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 435 

Forgive these wild and wandering cries. 

Confusions of a wasted youth; 

Forgive them where they fail in truth. 
And in thy wisdom make me wise. 



Calm is the morn without a sound, 

Calm as to suit a calmer grief. 

And only thro' the faded leaf 
The chestnut pattering to the ground; 

Calm and deep peace on this high wold, 
And on these dews that drench the furze. 
And all the silvery gossamers 

That twinkle into green and gold; 

Calm and still light on yon great plain 
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, 
And crowded farms and lessening towers. 

To mingle with the bounding main; 

Calm and deep peace in this wide air. 
These leaves that redden to the fall. 
And in my heart, if calm at all. 

If any calm, a calm despair; 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep. 

And waves that sway themselves in rest. 
And dead calm in that noble breast 

Which heaves but with the heaving deep. 

O, YET we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill. 
To pangs of nature, sins of will, 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; 

That nothing w^alks with aimless feet; 
That not one life shall be destroy 'd. 
Or cast as rubbish to the void. 

When God hath made the pile complete; 



436 BRITISH POEMS 



That not a worm is cloven in vain; ) 

That not a moth with vain desire / 
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire. 

Or but subserves another's gain. j 

Behold, we know not anything; i 

I can but trust that good shall fall ; 

At last — far off — at last, to all, j 

And every winter change to spring. 

So runs my dream; but what am I? ; 

An infant crying in the night; \ 

An infant crying for the light, • 

And with no language but a cry. 



The wish, that of the living whole 
No life may fail beyond the grave. 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the soul? 

Are God and Nature then at strife, 
That Nature lends such evil dreams? 
So careful of the type she seems. 

So careless of the single life, 

That I, considering everywhere 
Her secret meaning in her deeds. 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I firmly trod. 

And falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world's altar-stairs 

That slope thro' darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope. 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all, 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 437 

*'So careful of the type?" but no. 
From scarped cliff and quarried stone 
She cries: "A thousand types are gone; 

I care for nothing, all shall go. 

"Thou makest thine appeal to me: 

I bring to life, I bring to death; 

The spirit does but mean the breath: 
I know no more." And he, shall he, 

Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair. 
Such splendid purpose in his eyes. 
Who roU'd the psalm to wintry skies, 

Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, 

Wlio trusted God was love indeed 
And love Creation's final law — 
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw 

With ravine, shriek'd against his creed — 

Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills. 
Who battled for the True, the Just, 
Be blown about the desert dust. 

Or seal'd within the iron hills? 

No more? A monster then, a dream, 
A discord. Dragons of the prime. 
That tear each other in their slime. 

Were mellow music match'd with him. 

O life as futile, then, as frail! 

O for thy voice to soothe and bless! 

What hope of answer, or redress? 
Behind the. veil, behind the veil. 



Dear friend, far off, my lost desire. 
So far, so near in woe and weal, 
O loved the most, when most I feel 

There is a lower and a higher; 



438 BRITISH POEMS { 

X 

Known and unknown, human, divine; i 

Sweet human hand and lips and eye; j 

Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, i 

Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine; j 

Strange friend, past, present, and to be; \ 

Loved deeplier, darklier understood; ; 

Behold, I dream a dream of good, j 

And mingle all the world with thee. j 



Thy voice is on the rolling air; 

I hear thee where the waters run; 

Thou standest in the rising sun, 
And in the setting thou art fair. 

What art thou then.^ I cannot guess; 
But tho' I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love thee less. 

My love involves the love before; 

My love is vaster passion now; 

Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou, 
I seem to love thee more and more. 

Far off thou art, but ever nigh; 

I have thee still, and I rejoice; 

I prosper, circled with thy voice; 
I shall not lose thee tho' I die. 



O LIVING will that shalt endure 

When all that seems shall suffer shock. 
Rise in the spiritual rock, 

Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure, 

That we may lift from out of dust 
A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquer'd years 

To one that with us works, and trust. 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 439 

With faith that comes of self-control, 
The truths that never can be proved 
Until we close with all we loved, 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 

[From In Memoriam A. H. H.] 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON 

Bury the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation; 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation; 
Mourning when their leaders fall. 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall. 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 

Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore? 
Here, in streaming London's central roar. 
Let the sound of those he wrought for. 
And the feet of those he fought for, 
Echo around his bones for evermore. 

Lead out the pageant: sad and slow. 

As fits an universal woe. 

Let the long, long procession go. 

And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, 

And let the mournful martial music blow; 

The last great Englishman is low. 

Mourn, for to us he seems the last. 
Remembering all his greatness in the past. 
No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
With lifted hand the gazer in the street. 
O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute! 
Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, 
The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, 
Whole in himself, a common good. 
Mourn for the man of amplest influence. 



440 BRITISH POEMS j 

Yet clearest of ambitious crime, I 

Our greatest yet with least pretence, ] 

Great in council and great in war, \ 
Foremost captain of his time. 

Rich in saving common-sense, i 

And, as the greatest only are, ; 

In his simplicity sublime. j 

O good gray head which all men knew, | 

O voice from which their omens all men drew, ' 

O iron nerve to true occasion true, ' 
O fallen at length that tower of strength 

Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew! i 

Such was he whom we deplore. | 

The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. | 
The great World-victor's victor will be seen no more. 

All is over and done, j 

Render thanks to the Giver, ! 

England, for thy son. | 

Let the bell be toll'd. 

Render thanks to the Giver, \ 

And render him to the mould. j 

Under the cross of gold , 

That shines over city and river, \ 

There he shall rest forever 

Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be toll'd, \ 

And a reverent people behold \ 

The towering car, the sable steeds. j 

Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds. 

Dark in its funeral fold. 

Let the bell be toll'd, | 

And a deeper knell in the heart be knolFd; 

And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll'd 

Thro' the dome of the golden cross; 

And the volleying cannon thunder his loss; 

He knew their voices of old. 

For many a time in many a clime 

His captain's-ear has heard them boom \ 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 441 

Bellowing victory, bellowing doom. 

When he with those deep voices wrought, 

Guarding realms and kings from shame, 

With those deep voices our dead captain taught 

The tyrant, and asserts his claim 

In that dread sound to the great name 

Wliich he has worn so pure of blame. 

In praise and in dispraise the same, 

A man of well-attemper'd frame. 

O civic muse, to such a name, 

To such a name for ages long. 

To such a name, 

Preserve a broad approach of fame. 

And ever-echoing avenues of song! 

"Who is he that cometh, like an honour'd guest. 

With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest, 

With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest.^" — 

Mighty Seaman, this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea. 

Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man. 

The greatest sailor since our world began. 

Now, to the roll of muffled drums. 

To thee the greatest soldier comes; 

For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea. 

His foes were thine; he kept us free; 

O, give him w^elcome, this is he 

Worthy of our gorgeous rites, 

And worthy to be laid by thee; 

For this is England's greatest son, 

He that gain'd a hundred fights. 

Nor ever lost an English gun; 

This is he that far away 

Against the myriads of Assaye 

Clash'd with his fiery few and won; 

And underneath another sun. 

Warring on a later day, 

Round affrighted Lisbon drew 



442 BRITISH POEMS 

The treble works, the vast designs 

Of his labour'd rampart-Hnes, 

Where he greatly stood at bay, 

Whence he issued forth anew, 

And ever great and greater grew. 

Beating from the wasted vines 

Back to France her banded swarms. 

Back to France with countless blows. 

Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 

Beyond the Pyrenean pines, 

Follow'd up in valley and glen 

With blare of bugle, clamour of men. 

Roll of cannon and clash of arms. 

And England pouring on her foes. 

Such a war had such a close. 

Again their ravening eagle rose 

In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing wings, 

And barking for the throne of kings; 

Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown 

On that loud Sabbath shook the spoiler down; 

A day of onsets of despair! 

Dash'd on every rocky square, 

Their surging charges foam'd themselves away; 

Last, the Prussian trumpet blew; 

Thro' the long-tormented air 

Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray, 

And down we swept and charged and overthrew. 

So great a soldier taught us there 

What long-enduring hearts could do 

In that world-earthquake, Waterloo! 

Mighty Seaman, tender and true, 

And pure as he from taint of craven guile, 

O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 

O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 

If aught of things that here befall 

Touch a spirit among things divine. 

If love of country move thee there at all, 

Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine! 

And tliro' the centuries let a people's voice 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 443 

In full acclaim, 

A people's voice, 

The proof and echo of all human fame, 

A people's voice, when they rejoice 

At civic revel and pomp and game, 

Attest their great commander's claim 

With honour, honour, honour, honour to him. 

Eternal honour to his name. 

A people's voice! we are a people yet. 

Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forget. 

Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers, 

Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set 

His Briton in blown seas and storming showers. 

We have a voice with which to pay the debt 

Of boundless love and reverence and regret 

To those great men who fought, and kept it ours. 

And keep it ours, O God, from brute control! 

O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul 

Of Europe, keep our noble England whole. 

And save the one true seed of freedom sown 

Betwixt a people and their ancient throne. 

That sober freedom out of which there springs 

Our loyal passion for our temperate kings! 

For, saving that, ye help to save mankind 

Till public wrong be crumbled into dust. 

And drill the raw world for the march of mind. 

Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just. 

But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 

Remember him who led your hosts; 

He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 

Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall; 

His voice is silent in your council-hall 

For ever; and whatever tempests lour 

For ever silent; even if they broke 

In thunder, silent; yet remember all 

He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke; 

Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, 

Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power; 



444 BRITISH POEMS 

Who let the turbid streams of rumour flow 
Thro' either babbling world of high and low; 
Whose life was work, whose language rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life; 
Who never spoke against a foe; 
Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke 
All great self-seekers trampling on the right. 
Truth- teller was our England's Alfred named; 
Truth-lover was our English Duke! 
Whatever record leap to light 
He never shall be shamed. 

Lo! the leader in these glorious wars 

Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 

Follow'd b}' the brave of other lands. 

He, on whom from both her open hands 

Lavish Honour shower'd all her stars. 

And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. 

Yea, let all good things await 

Him who cares not to be great 

But as he saves or serves the state. 

Not once or twice in our rough island-story 

The path of duty was the way to glory. 

He that walks it, only thirsting 

For the right, and learns to deaden 

Love of self, before his journey closes. 

He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting 

Into glossy purples, which out-redden 

All voluptuous garden-roses. 

Not once or twice in our fair island-story 

The path of duty was the way to glory. 

He, that ever following her commands. 

On with toil of heart and knees and hands, 

Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won 

His path upward, and prevail'd. 

Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled 

Are close upon the shining table-lands 

To which our God Himself is moon and sun. 

Such was he: his work is done. 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON U5 

But while the races of mankind endure 

Let his great example stand 

Colossal, seen of every land. 

And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure; 

Till in all lands and thro' all human story 

The path of duty be the way to glory. 

And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame 

For many and many an age proclaim 

At civic revel and pomp and game. 

And when the long-illumined cities flame. 

Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame. 

With honour, honour, honour, honour to him. 

Eternal honour to his name. 

Peace, his triumph will be sung 

B}' some yet unmoulded tongue 

Far on in summers that we shall not see. 

Peace, it is a day of pain 

For one about whose patriarchal knee 

Late the little children clung. 

O peace, it is a day of pain 

For one upon whose hand and heart and brain 

Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 

Ours the pain, be his the gain! 

More than is of man's degree 

Must be with us, watching here 

At this, our great solemnity. 

Whom we see not we revere; 

We revere, and we refrain 

From talk of battles loud and vain. 

And bawling memories all too free 

For such a wise humility 

As befits a solemn fane: 

W^e revere, and while we hear 

The tides of Music's golden sea 

Setting toward eternity. 

Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, 

Until we doubt not that for one so true 

There must be other nobler work to do 



446 BRITISH POEMS 

Than when he fought at Waterloo, 

And victor he must ever be. 

For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill 

And break the shore, and evermore 

Make and break, and work their will, 

Tho' world on world in myriad myriads roll 

Round us, each with different powers, 

And other forms of life than ours. 

What know we greater than the soul? 

On God and Godlike men we build our trust. 

Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears; 

The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears; 

The black earth yawns; the mortal disappears; 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; 

He is gone who seem'd so great. — 

Gone, but nothing can bereave him 

Of the force he made his own 

Being here, and we believe him 

Something far advanced in State, 

And that he wears a truer crown 

Than any wreath that man can weave him. 

Speak no more of his renown, 

La}^ your earthly fancies down. 

And in the vast cathedral leave him, 

God accept him, Christ receive him! 



FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL 

Flower in the crannied wall, 

I pluck you out of the crannies, 

I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, 

Little flower — but if I could understand 

What you are, root and all, and all in all, 

I should know what God and man is. 



EDWARD FITZGERALD 447 



CROSSING THE BAR 

Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar. 

When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep. 

Too full for sound and foam, 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home 

Twilight and evening bell. 

And after that the dark! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell. 

When I embark; 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

W^hen I have crost the bar. 



EDWARD FITZGERALD [1809-1883] 

THE LOQUACIOUS VESSELS 

As under cover of departing Day 
Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazan away. 

Once more within the Potter's house alone 
I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay. 

Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small. 
That stood along the floor and by the wall; 

And some loquacious Vessels were; and some 
Listen'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all. 



448 BRITISH POEMS 

! 

Said one among them — "Surely not in vain J 

My substance of the common Earth was ta'en ) 

And to this Figure moulded, to be broke, '] 

Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again." ; 

Then said a Second — "Ne'er a peevish Boy : 
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy; 

And He that with his hand the Vessel made 

Will surely not in after Wrath destroy." \ 

After a momentary silence spake ; 
Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make; . ; 

"They sneer at me for leaning all awry: j 
What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake.?" 

Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot — 

I think a Sufi pipkin — waxing hot — I 

"All this of Pot and Potter— Tell me then, ' 
Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot.^^" 

"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell ; 
Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell 

The luckless Pots he marr'd in making — Pish! i 
He's a Good Fellow, and 't will all be well." 

"Well," murmur'd one. "Let whoso make or buy, \ 

My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry: j 

But fill me with the old familiar Juice, j 

Methinks I might recover by and by." j 

i 

So while the Vessels one by one were speaking, ' 

The little Moon look'd in that all were seeking: 

And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother! ; 

Now for the Porter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!" j 

[From The Rubaiyat of Omab Khayyam.] I 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 449 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 

[1806-1861] 

SONNETS 

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand 
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore 
Alone upon the threshold of my door 
Of individual life, I shall command 
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
Serenely in the sunshine as before, 
Without the sense of that which I forbore — 
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land 
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine 
With pulses that beat double. What I do 
And what I dream include thee, as the wine 
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue 
God for myself, He hears that name of thine. 
And sees within my eyes the tears of two. 



If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange 
And be all to me? Shall I never miss 
Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss 
That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange, 
When I look up, to drop on a new range 
Of walls and floors, another home than this.^ 
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is 
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change.^ 
That's hardest. If to conquer love, has tried. 
To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove; 
For grief indeed is love and grief beside. 
Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. 
Yet love me — wilt thou? Open thine heart wide. 
And fold within the wet wings of thy dove. 



How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. 
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height 



450 BRITISH POEMS 

My soul can reach, when feehng out of sight 

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace, 

I love thee to the level of everyday 's 

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. 

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; 

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. 

I love thee with the passion put to use 

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. 

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 

With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath. 

Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose, 

I shall but love thee better after death. 

[From Sonnets From the Portuguese.] 



ROBERT BROWNING [1812-1889] 
TWO SONGS 



Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes 

Of labdanum, and aloe-balls. 

Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes 

From out her hair: such balsam falls 

Down sea-side mountain pedestals. 
From tree-tops where tired winds are fain. 
Spent with the vast and howling main. 
To treasure half their island-gain. 

And strew faint sweetness from some old 

Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud 
Which breaks to dust when once unrolled; 

Or shredded perfume, like a cloud 
From closet long to quiet vowed, 
With mothed and dropping arras hung. 
Mouldering her lute and books among. 
As when a queen, long dead, was young. 

[From Paracelsus.] 



ROBERT BROWNING 451 



n 



The year's at the spring 
And day's at the morn; 
Morning's at seven; 
The hill-side's dew-pearled; 
The lark's on the wing; 
The snail's on the thorn: 
God's in his heaven — 
All's right with the world! 



[From PiPPA Passes.] 



HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD 

Oh, to be in England 

Now that April's there. 

And whoever wakes in England 

Sees, some morning, unaware. 

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf 

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 

"^^^lile the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 

In England — now! 

And after April, when May follows, 

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! 

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 

Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge — 

That's the wise tln-ush; he sings each song twice over, 

Lest you should think he never could recapture 

The first fine careless rapture! 

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew. 

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 

The buttercups, the little children's dower 

— Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! 



452 BRITISH POEMS 



MY LAST DUCHESS 

FERRARA 

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall. 

Looking as if she were alive. I call 

That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands 

Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 

Will't please you sit and look at her.^ I said 

"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read 

Strangers like 3"ou that pictured countenance. 

The depth and passion of its earnest glance. 

But to myself they turned (since none puts by 

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst. 

How such a glance came there; so, not the first 

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not 

Her husband's presence only, called that spot 

Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps 

Fra Pandolf chanced to saj^ "Her mantle laps 

Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint 

Must never hope to reproduce the faint 

Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff 

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 

For calling up that spot of joy. She had 

A heart — how shall I sayi^ — too soon made glad, 

Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er 

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. 

Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast. 

The dropping of the daylight in the West, 

The bough of cherries some oflScious fool 

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule 

She rode with round the terrace — all and each 

Would draw from her alike the approving speech. 

Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good! but thanked 

Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked 

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name 

With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame 



ROBERT BROWNING 453 

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill 

In speech — (which I have not) — to make your will 

Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this 

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss. 

Or there exceed the mark" — and if she let 

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, 

— E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose 

Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt. 

Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without 

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; 

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands 

As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet 

The company below, then. I repeat, 

The Count your master's known munificence 

Is ample warrant that no just pretence 

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; 

Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed 

At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go 

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though. 

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity. 

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me! 



MEETING AT NIGHT 

The grey sea and the long black land; 
And the yellow half-moon large and low; 
And the startled little waves that leap 
In fiery ringlets from their sleep. 
As I gain the cove with pushing prow. 
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand. 

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; 

Three fields to cross till a farm appears; 

A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 

And blue spurt of a lighted match. 

And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears. 

Than the two hearts beating each to each! 



45 i BRITISH POEMS 



THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER 

I SAID — Then, dearest, since 'tis so. 
Since now at length my fate I know, 
Since nothing all my love avails, 
Since all my life seemed meant for, fails, 

Since this was written and needs must be — 
My whole heart rises up to bless 
Your name in pride and thankfulness! 
Take back the hope you gave, — I claim 
Only a memory of the same, 
— And this beside, if you will not blame. 

Your leave for one more last ride with me. 

My mistress bent that brow of hers; 
Those deep dark ej'es where pride demurs 
When pity would be softening through. 
Fixed me a breathing-while or two 

With life or death in the balance: right! 
The blood replenished me again; 
My last thought was at least not vain: 
I and my mistress, side bj^ side 
Shall be together, breathe and ride. 
So, one day more am I deified. 

Who knows but the world may end to-night 

Hush! if you saw some western cloud 

All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed 

By many benedictions — sun's 

And moon's and evening-star's at once — 

And so, you, looking and loving best. 
Conscious grew, your passion drew 
Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, 
Down on you, near and yet more near, 
Till flesh must fade for heaven was here! — 
Thus leant she and lingered — joy and fear! 

Thus lay she a moment on my breast. 



ROBERT BROWNING 455 

Then we began to ride. My soul 
Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll 
Freshening and fluttering in the wind. 
Past hopes already laj^ behind. 

What need to strive with a life awry.'^ 
Had I said that, had I done this, 
So might I gain, so might I miss. 
Might she have loved me? just as well 
She might have hated, who can tell! 
Where had I been now if the worst befell.^ 

And here we are riding, she and I. 

Fail I alone, in words and deeds? 
Why, all men strive, and who succeeds? 
We rode; it seemed my spirit flew. 
Saw other regions, cities new, 

As the world rushed by on either side. 
I thought, — All labour, yet no less 
Bear up beneath their unsuccess. 
Look at the end of work, contrast 
The petty done, the undone vast, 
This present of theirs with the hopeful past! 

I hoped she would love me; here we ride. 

What hand and brain went ever paired? 
What heart alike conceived and dared? 
What act proved all its thought had been? 
What will but felt the fleshly screen? 

We ride and I see her bosom heave. 
There's many a crown for who can reach. 
Ten lines, a statesman's life in each! 
The flag stuck on a heap of bones, 
A soldier's doing! what atones? 
They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. 

My riding is better, by their leave. 

What does it all mean, poet? Well, 
Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell 



456 BRITISH POEMS 

What we felt only; you expressed 
You hold things beautiful the best. 

And place them in rhyme so, side by side. 
'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then. 
Have you yourself what's best for men? 
Are you — poor, sick, old ere your time — 
Nearer one whit your own sublime 
Than we who never have turned a rhyme? 

Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride. 

And you, great sculptor — so, you gave 
A score of years to Art, her slave. 
And that's your Venus, whence we turn 
To yonder girl that fords the burn! 

You acquiesce, and shall I repine? 
What, man of music, you grown grey 
With notes and nothing else to say, 
Is this your sole praise from a friend, 
"Greatly his opera's strains intend. 
But in music we know how fashions end!" 

I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine. 

Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate 
Proposed bliss here should sublimate 
My being — had I signed the bond — 
Still one must lead some life beyond, 

Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. 
This foot once planted on the goal. 
This glory-garland round my soul. 
Could I descry such? Try and test! 
I sink back shuddering from the quest. 
Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? 

Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. 

And yet — she has not spoke so long! 
What if heaven be that, fair and strong 
At life's best, with our eyes upturned 
Whither life's flower is first discerned,'. 
We, fixed so, ever should so abide? 



ROBERT BROWNING 457 

What if we still ride on, we two, 
With life forever old yet new. 
Changed not in kind but in degree, 
The instant made eternity, — 
And heaven just prove that I and she 
Ride, ride together, forever ride? 



A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S 

Oh Galuppi, Baldassare, this is very sad to find! 

I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind; 

But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind ! 

Here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it 

brings. 
What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants 

were the kings. 
Where St. Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with 



Ay, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis arched by . . . 

what you call 
. . . Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the 

carnival : 
I was never out of England — it's as if I saw it all. 

Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm 

in May.^ 
Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day. 
When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you 



Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red, — 
On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its 

bed. 
O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base 

his head,'* 



458 BRITISH POEMS 

Well, and it was graceful of them — they'd break talk off and 

afford 
— She, to bite her mask's black velvet — he, to finger on his 

sword, 
While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord? 

What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, 

sigh on sigh, 
Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions — 

"Must we die?" 
Those commiserating sevenths — "Life might last! we can but 

try!" 

"Were j^ou happy?" — "Yes." — "And are you still as happy?" 

— "Yes. And you?" 
— "Then, more kisses!" — "Did / stop them, when a million 

seemed so few?" 
Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to! 

So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I 

dare say! 
"Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and 

gay! 
I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play!" 

Then they left you for their pleasure: till in due time, one by 

one. 
Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well 

undone, 
Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the 

sun. 

But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor 

swerve, 
While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve, 
In you come with your cold music till I creep through every 

nerve. 



ROBERT BROWNING 459 

Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was 
burned : 

"Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Ven- 
ice earned. 

The soul, doubtless, is immortal — where a soul can be dis- 
cerned. 

"Yours for instance: you know physics, something of geology, 
Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree; 
Butterflies may dread extinction, — you'll not die, it cannot be! 

"As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop, 
Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were 

the crop: 
What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop.? 

"Dust and ashes!" So you creak it, and I want the heart to 

scold. 
Dear dead women, with such hair, too — what's become of all 

the gold 
Used to hang and brush their bosoms.^ I feel chilly and grown 

old. 

ABT VOGLER 

(after he has been extemporizing upon the musical 
instrument of his invention) 

Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build. 

Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work. 
Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when Solomon 
willed 
Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk, 
Man, brute, reptile, fly, — alien of end and of aim. 

Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep re- 
moved, — 
Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable Name, 
'And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he 
loved ! 



460 BRITISH POEMS 

Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine, 
This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to 
raise ! 
Ah, one and all, how they helped, would disport now and now 
combine, 
Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise! 
And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to 
hell, 
Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots * of things. 
Then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace 
well, 
Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs. 

And another would mount and march, like the excellent min- 
ion he was, 
Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a 
crest, 
Raising my rampired walls of gold as transparent as glass. 

Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest: 
For higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire. 
When a great illumination surprises a festal night — 
Outlined round and round Rome's dome from space to spire) 
Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul 
was in sight. 

In sight? Not half! for it seemed, it was certain, to match 
man's birth. 
Nature in turn conceived, obeying an impulse as I; 
And the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to reach 
the earth. 
As the earth has done her best, in my passion, to scale the 
sky: 
Novel splendours burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with 
mine, 
Not a point nor peak but found and fixed its wandering 
star; 
Meteor-moons, balls of blaze: and they did not pale nor pine. 
For earth had attained to heaven, there was no more near 
nor far. 



ROBERT BROWNING 461 

Nay more; for there wanted not who walked in the glare and 
glow. 
Presences plain in the place; or, fresh from the Protoplast, 
Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow, 
Lured now to begin and live, in a house to their liking at 
last; 
Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed through the body 
and gone. 
But were back once more to breathe in an old world worth 
their new: 
What never had been, was now; what was, as it shall be anon; 
And what is, — shall I say, matched both? for I was made per- 
fect too. 

All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my 
soul. 
All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly 
forth, 
All through music and me! For think, had I painted the 
whole, 
Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder- 
worth : 
Had I written the same, made verse — still, effect proceeds 
from cause. 
Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is 
told; 
It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws, 
Painter and poet are proud in the artist-list enrolled: — 

But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can, 

Existent behind all laws, that made them and, lo, they are! 
And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man, 

That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but 
a star. 
Consider it well: each tone of our scale in itself is naught: 

It is everywhere in the world — loud, soft, and all is said: 
Give it to me to use! I mix it with two in my thought: 

And there! Ye have heard and seen: consider and bow the 
head! 



4G2 BRITISH POEMS 

Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared; 

Gone! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow; 
For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared. 

That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go. 
Never to be again! But many more of the kind 

As good, nay, better, perchance: is this your comfort to me? 
To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mind 

To the same, same self, same love, same God: ay, what was, 
shall be. 

Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name? 
Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands! 
What, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same? 
Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power ex- 
pands ? 
There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as 
before; 
The evil is null, is naught, is silence implying sound; 
What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good 
more; 
On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven a perfect round. 

All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist; 

Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power 
Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melo- 
dist 

When eternity affirms the conception of an hour. 
The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard, 

The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky, 
Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard; 

Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it by and by. 

And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence 

For the fulness of the days? Have we withered or ago- 
nized ? 
Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue 
thence ? 
Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be 
prized ? 



ROBERT BROWNING 4C3 

Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear, 

Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe: 

But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear; 
The rest may reason and welcome; 'tis we musicians know. 

Well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign: 

I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce. 
Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again. 

Sliding by semitones till I sink to the minor, — yes. 
And I blunt it mto a ninth, and I stand on alien ground. 

Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into the deep; 
Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my resting-place is 
found, 

The C Major of this life: so, now I will try to sleep. 



RABBI BEN EZRA 

Grow old along with me! 

The best is yet to be. 

The last of life, for which the first was made: 

Our times are in his hand 

Who saith, "A whole I planned. 

Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!" 

Not that, amassing flowers. 

Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours, 

Which lily leave and then as best recall.^" 

Not that, admiring stars. 

It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars; 

Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!'* 

Not for such hopes and fears 

Annulling youth's brief years. 

Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! 

Rather I prize the doubt 

Low kinds exist without. 

Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. 



464 BRITISH POEMS 

Poor vaunt of life indeed, 
Were man but formed to feed 
On joy, to solely seek and find and feast: 
Such feasting ended, then 
As sure an end to men; 

Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed 
beast? 

Rejoice we are allied 

To that which doth provide 

And not partake, effect and not receive! 

A spark disturbs our clod; 

Nearer we hold of God 

Who gives, than of his tribes that take, I must believe. 

Then, welcome each rebuff 

That turns earth's smoothness rough. 

Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! 

Be our joys three-parts pain! 

Strive, and hold cheap the strain; 

Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! 

For thence, — a paradox 

Which comforts while it mocks, — 

Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: 

What I aspired to be. 

And was not, comforts me: 

A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. 

What is he but a brute 

Whose flesh has soul to suit. 

Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? 

To man, propose this test — 

Thy body at its best. 

How far can that project thy soul on its lone way? 

Yet gifts should prove their use: 

I own the Past profuse 

Of power each side, perfection every turn: 



ROBERT BROWNING 465 

Eyes, ears took in their dole, 

Brain treasured up the whole; 

Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn"? 

Not once beat "Praise be thine! 

I see the whole design, 

I, who saw power, see now love perfect too: 

Perfect I call thy plan: 

Thanks that I was a man! 

Maker, remake, complete, — I trust what thou shalt do!" 

For pleasant is this flesh; 

Our soul, in its rose-mesh 

Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest: 

Would we some prize might hold 

To match those manifold 

Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as we did best! 

Let us not always say, 

"Spite of this flesh to-day 

I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!'* 

As the bird wings and sings. 

Let us cry, "All good things 

Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!" 

Therefore I summon age 

To grant youth's heritage. 

Life's struggle having so far reached its term: 

Thence shall I pass, approved 

A man, for aye removed 

From the developed brute; a god, though in the germ. 

And I shall thereupon 

Take rest, ere I be gone 

Once more on my adventure brave and new: 

Fearless and unperplexed. 

When I wage battle next. 

What weapons to select, what armour to indue. 



466 BRITISH POEMS 

Youth ended, I shall try 

My gain or loss thereby; 

Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold: 

And I shall weigh the same, 

Give life its praise or blame: 

Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old. 

For note, when evening shuts, 

A certain moment cuts 

The deed off, calls the glory from the grey: 

A whisper from the west 

Shoots — "Add this to the rest. 

Take it and try its worth: here dies another day." 

So, still within this life. 

Though lifted o'er its strife. 

Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, 

"This rage was right i' the main. 

That acquiescence vain: 

The Future I may face now I have proved the Past." 

For more is not reserved 

To man, with soul just nerved 

To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: 

Here, work enough to watch 

The Master work, and catch 

Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. 

As it was better, youth 

Should strive, through acts uncouth. 

Toward making, than repose on aught found made: 

So, better, age, exempt 

From strife, should know, than tempt 

Further. Thou waitedst age: wait death nor be afraid! 

Enough now, if the Right 

And Good and Infinite 

Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own. 






ROBERT BROWNING 467 

With knowledge absolute, 

Subject to no dispute 

From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. 

Be there, for once and all. 

Severed great minds from small. 

Announced to each his station in the Past! 

Was I, the world arraigned. 

Were they, my soul disdained. 

Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last! 

Now, who shall arbitrate? 

Ten men love what I hate. 

Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; 

Ten, who in ears and eyes 

Match me: we all surmise. 

They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe? 

Not on the vulgar mass 

Called "work," must sentence pass, 

Things done, that took the eye and had the price; 

O'er which, from level stand. 

The low world laid its hand, 

Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice: 

But all the world's coarse thumb 

And finger failed to plumb, 

So passed in making up the main account; 

All instincts immature. 

All purposes unsure, 

That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount: 

Thoughts hardly to be packed 

Into a narrow act. 

Fancies that broke through language and escaped; 

All I could never be, 

All, men ignored in me. 

This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. 



468 BRITISH POEMS 

Ay, note that Potter's wheel, 

That metaphor! and feel 

Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay, — 

Thou, to whom fools propound, 

When the wine makes its round, 

"Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!" 

Fool! All that is, at all. 

Lasts ever, past recall; 

Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: 

What entered into thee, 

That was, is, and shall be:. 

Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure. 

He fixed thee 'mid this dance 

Of plastic circumstance, 

This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest: 

Machinery just meant 

To give thy soul its bent. 

Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed. 

What though the earlier grooves. 

Which ran the laughing loves 

Around thy base, no longer pause and press? 

What though, about thy rim. 

Skull-things in order grim 

Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress? 

Look not thou down but up! 
To uses of a cup. 

The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal. 
The new wine's foaming flow. 
The Master's lips aglow! 

Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou with earth's 
wheel? 

But I need, now as then. 

Thee, God, who mouldest men,> 

And since, not even while the whirl was worst. 



ROBERT BROWNING 469 

Did I — to the wheel of Hfe 

With shapes and colours rife. 

Bound dizzily — mistake my end, to slake thy thirst: 

So, take and use thy work: 

Amend what flaws may lurk, 

What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! 

My times be in thy hand! 

Perfect the cup as planned! 

Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same! 



PROSPICE 

Fear death? — to feel the fog in my throat. 

The mist in my face, 
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote 

I am nearing the place. 
The power of the night, the press of the storm. 

The post of the foe; 
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form. 

Yet the strong man must go; 
For the journey is done and the summit attained. 

And the barriers fall. 
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained. 

The reward of it all. 
I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more, 

The best and the last! 
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forebore. 

And bade me creep past. 
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers 

The heroes of old. 
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears 

Of pain, darkness and cold. 
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, 

The black minute's at end. 
And the elements' rage, the fiend- voices that rave. 

Shall dwindle, shall blend. 



470 BRITISH POEMS 

Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, 

Then a light, then thy breast, 
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again. 

And with God be the rest! 



EPILOGUE 

At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time. 

When you set your fancies free. 
Will thej^ pass to where — by death, fools think, imprisoned — 
Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so, 
— Pity me? 

Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken! 

What had I on earth to do 
With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? 
Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless did I drivel 
— Being — who ? 

One who never turned his back but marched breast forward. 

Never doubted clouds would break. 
Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would 

triumph. 
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better. 
Sleep to wake. 

No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time 

Greet the unseen with a cheer! 
Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, 
"Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed, — fight on, fare ever 
There as here!" 

[ASOLANDO.J 



ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 471 

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH [1819-1861] 

SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETPI 

Say not the struggle nought availeth, 
The labour and the wounds are vain, 

The enemy faints not, nor faileth. 

And as things have been they remain. 

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; 

It may be, in yon smoke concealed. 
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers. 

And, but for you, possess the field. 

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking. 

Seem here no painful inch to gain, 
Far back, through creeks and inlets making. 

Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 

And not by eastern windows only. 

When daylight comes, comes in the light. 

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, 
But westward, look, the land is bright. 



QUI LABORAT, ORAT 

O OXLY Source of all our light and life. 

Whom as our truth, our strength, we see and feel, 

But whom the hours of mortal moral strife 
Alone aright reveal! 

Mine inmost soul, before Thee inly brought. 

Thy presence owns ineffable, divine; 
Chastised each rebel self-encentred thought. 

My will adoreth Thine. 



472 BRITISH POEMS 

With eye down-dropped, if then this earthly mind 
Speechless remain, or speechless e'en depart; 

Nor seek to see — for what of earthly kind 
Can see Thee as Thou art? — 

If well-assured 'tis but profanely bold 

In thought's abstractest forms to seem to see. 

It dare not dare the dread communion hold 
In ways unworthy Thee, 

O not unowned, thou shalt unnamed forgive, 
In worldly walks the prayerless heart prepare; 

And if in work its life it seem to live, 
Shalt make that work be prayer. 

Nor times shall lack, when while the work it plies, 
Unsummoned powers the blinding film shall part, 

And scarce by happy tears made dim, the eyes 
In recognition start. 

But, as thou wiliest, give or e'en forbear 
. The beatific supersensual sight. 
So, with Thy blessing blessed, that humbler prayer 
Approach Thee morn and night. 



WHERE LIES THE LAND ? 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go? 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
And where the land she travels from? Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 

On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face. 
Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace; 
Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below 
The foaming wake far widening as we go. 

On stormy nights when wild northwesters rave, 
How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave! 



CHARLES KINGSLEY 473 

The dripping sailor on the reeling mast 
Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go? 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
And where the land she travels from.^ Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 



CHARLES KINGSLEY [1819-1875] 

THE SANDS OF DEE 

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home, 

And call the cattle home. 

And call the cattle home. 

Across the sands of Dee:" 
The western wind was wild and dank with foam. 

And all alone went she. 

The western tide crept up along the sand, 

And o'er and o'er the sand. 

And round and round the sand, 

As far as eye could see: 
The rolling mist came down and hid the land. 

And never home came she. 

"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair, 

A tress of golden hair, 

A drowned maiden's hair 

Above the nets at sea.'^ 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair 

Among the stakes at Dee." 

They rowed her in across the rolling foam. 

The cruel crawling foam, 

The cruel hungry foam 

To her grave beside the sea: 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home 

Across the sands of Dee. 



474 BRITISH POEMS 



MATTHEW ARNOLD [1822-1888] 

REQUIESCAT 

Strew on her roses, roses, 
And never a spray of yew! 

In quiet she reposes; 

Ah, would that I did too! 

Her mirth the world required; 

She bathed it in smiles of glee. 
But her heart was tired, tired. 

And now they let her be. 

Her life was turning, turning, 
In mazes of heat and sound. 

But for peace her soul was yearning, 
And now peace laps her round. 

Her cabin'd, ample spirit. 

It flutter'd and fail'd for breath. 

To-night it doth inherit 
The vasty hall of death. 



THE FUTURE 

A WANDERER is man from his birth. 

He was born in a ship 

On the breast of the river of Time; 

Brimming with wonder and joy 

He spreads out his arms to the light, 

Rivets his gaze on the banks of the stream. 

As what he sees is, so have his thoughts been. 
Whether he wakes 
Where the snowy mountainous pass. 
Echoing the screams of the eagles, 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 475 

Hems in its gorges the bed 
Of the new-born clear flowing stream; 
Whether he first sees hght 
Where the river in gleaming rings 
Sluggishly winds through the plain; 
Whether in sound of the swallowing sea — 
As is the world on the banks. 
So is the mind of the man. 

Vainly does each, as he glides, 
Fable and dream 

Of the lands which the river of Time 
Had left ere he woke on its breast, 
Or shall reach when his eyes have been closed. 
Only the tract where he sails 
He wots of; only the thoughts. 
Raised by the objects he passes, are his. 

Who can see the green earth any more 

As she was by the sources of Time.^^ 

W^ho imagines her fields as they lay 

In the sunshine, unworn by the plough.^ 

Who thinks as they thought, 

The tribes who then roam'd on her breast. 

Her vigourous, primitive sons.^ 

What girl 

Now reads in her bosom as clear 

As Rebekah read, when she sate 

At eve by the palm-shaded well.'' 

Who guards in her breast 

As deep, as pellucid a spring 

Of feeling, as tranquil, as sure.'* 

What bard. 
At the height of his vision, can deem 
Of God, of the world, of the soul, 
With a plainness as near, 
As flashing as Moses felt 
When he lay in the night by his flock 



476 BRITISH POEMS 

On the starlit Arabian waste? 

Can rise and obey 

The beck of the Spirit hke him? 

This tract which the river of Time 

Now flows through with us, is the plain. 

Gone is the calm of its earlier shore. 

Border'd by cities and hoarse 

With a thousand cries is its stream. 

And we on its breast, our minds 

Are confused as the cries which we hear, 

Changing and shot as the sights which we see. 

And we say that repose has fled 

For ever the course of the river of Time. 

That cities will crowd to its edge 

In a blacker, incessanter line; 

That the din will be more on its banks. 

Denser the trade on its stream. 

Flatter the plain where it flows. 

Fiercer the sun overhead. 

That never will those on its breast 

See an ennobling sight, 

Drink of the feeling of quiet again. 

But what was before us we know not, 
And we know not what shall succeed. 

Haply, the river of Time — 

As it grows, as the towns on its marge 

Fling their wavering lights 

On a wider, statelier stream — 

May acquire, if not the calm 

Of its early mountainous shore. 

Yet a solemn peace of its own. 

And the width of the waters, the hush 
Of the gray expanse where he floats, 
Freshening its current and spotted with foam 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 477 

As it draws to the Ocean, may strike 

Peace to the soul of the man on its breast — 

As the pale waste widens around him, 

As the banks fade dimmer away. 

As the stars come out, and the night-wind 

Brings up the stream 

Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea. 



THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 

Come, dear children, let us away; 
Down and away below! 
Now my brothers call from the bay. 
Now the great winds shoreward blow. 
Now the salt tides seaward flow; 
Now the wild white horses play. 
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. 
Children dear, let us away! 
This way, this way! 

Call her once before you go — 

Call once yet! 

In a voice that she will know: 

' ' Margaret ! Margaret ! ' ' 

Children's voices should be dear 

(Call once more) to a mother's ear; 

Children's voices, wild with pain — 

Surely she will come again! 

Call her once and come away; 

This way, this way! 

"Mother dear, we cannot stay! 

The wild white horses foam and fret." 

Margaret! Margaret! 

Come, dear children, come away down; 

Call no more! 

One last look at the white-wall'd town. 

And the little gray church on the windy shore. 



478 BRITISH POEMS 

Then cdtne clown! 

She will not come though you call all day; 

Come away, come away! 

Children dear, was it yesterday 

We heard the sweet bells over the bay? 

In the caverns where we lay. 

Through the surf and through the swell, 

The far-off sound of a silver bell? 

Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep. 

Where the winds are all asleep; 

Where the spent lights quiver and gleam. 

Where the salt weed sways in the stream. 

Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round. 

Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; 

Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, 

Dry their mail and bask in the brine; 

Where great whales come sailing by, 

Sail and sail, with unshut eye. 

Round the world for ever and aye? 

When did music come this way? 

Children dear, was it yesterday? 

Children dear, was it yesterday 

(Call yet once) that she went away? 

Once she sate with you and me, 

On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea. 

And the youngest sate on her knee. 

She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well. 

When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. 

She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea; 

She said: "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray 

In the little gray church on the shore to-day. 

'Twill be Easter- time in the world — ah me! 

And I lose my poor soul. Merman! here with thee." 

I said: "Go up, dear heart, through the waves; 

Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves! 

She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. 

Children dear, was it yesterday? 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 479 

Children dear, were we long alone? 
"The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan; 
Long prayers," I said, "In the world they say; 
Come!" I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay. 
We went up the beach, by the sandy down 
Where the sea-stoclis bloom, to the white-wall'd town; 
Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still. 
To the little gray church on the windy hill. 
From the church came a mtu-mur of folk at their prayers, 
But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. 
We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains. 
And we gazed up the aisle tlu-ough the small leaded panes. 
She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: 
"Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here! 
Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone; 
The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan." 
But, ah, she gave me never a look. 
For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book! 
Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. 
Come away, children, call no more! 
Come away, come down, call no more! 

Down, down, down! 
Down to the depths of the sea! 
She sits at her wheel in the humming town, 
Singing most joyfully. 
Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy, 
For the humming street, and the child with its toy! 
For the priest and the bell, and the holy well; 
For the wheel where I spun. 
And the blessed light of the sun!" 
And so she sings her fill, 
Singing most joyfully. 
Till the spindle drops from her hand. 
And the whizzing wheel stands still. 
She steals to the window, and looks at the sand. 
And over the sand at the sea; 
And her eyes are set in a stare; 
And anon there breaks a sigh, 



480 BRITISH POEMS 

And anon there drops a tear, 

From a sorrow-clouded eye, 

And a heart sorrow-laden, 

A long, long sigh; 

For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden 

And the gleam of her golden hair. 

Come away, away children; 
Come children, come down! 
The hoarse wind blows coldly; 
Lights shine in the town. 
She will start from her slumber 
When gusts shake the door; 
She will hear the winds howling, 
Will hear the waves roar. 
We shall see, while above us 
The waves roar and whirl, 
A ceiling of amber, 
A pavement of pearl. 
Singing: "Here came a mortal. 
But faithless was she! 
And alone dwell for ever 
The kings of the sea." 

But, children, at midnight. 
When soft the winds blow. 
When clear falls the moonlight. 
When spring tides are low; 
When sweet airs come seaward 
From heaths starr'd with broom. 
And high rocks throw mildly 
On the blanch 'd sands a gloom; 
Up the still, glistening beaches. 
Up the creeks we will hie, 
Over banks of bright seaweed 
The ebb-tide leaves dr3\ 
We will gaze, from the sand-hills. 
At the white, sleeping town; 
At the church on the hill-side — 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 481 

And then come back down. 

Singing: "There dwells a loved one, 

But cruel is she! 

She left lonely for ever 

The kings of the sea." 



DOVER BEACH 

The sea is calm to-night, 

The tide is full, the moon lies fair 

Upon the straits; — on the French coast the light 

Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand. 

Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. 

Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! 

Only, from the long line of spray 

Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land. 

Listen! you hear the grating roar 

Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling. 

At their return, up the high strand. 

Begin, and cease, and then again begin, 

With tremulous cadence slow, and bring 

The eternal note of sadness in. 

Sophocles long ago 

Heard it on the iEgsean, and it brought 

Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow 

Of human misery; we 

Find also in the sound a thought. 

Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 

The Sea of Faith 

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore 

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. 

But now I only hear 

Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar. 

Retreating, to the breath 

Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear 

And naked shingles of the world. 



482 BRITISH POEMS 

Ah, love, let us be true 

To one another! for the world, which seems 

To lie before us like a land of dreams. 

So various, so beautiful, so new, 

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light. 

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; 

And we are here as on a darkling plain 

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight. 

Where ignorant armies clash by night. 



THYRSIS 

A MONODY IN COMMEMORATION OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH, 1861 

How changed is here each spot man makes or fills! 
In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same; 

The village street its haunted mansion lacks. 
And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name. 

And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks — 
Are ye too changed, ye hills? 
See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men 

To-night from Oxford up your pathway strays! 

Here came I often, often, in old days — 
Thyrsis and I; we still had Thyrsis then. 

Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm, 
Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crowns 

The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames? 
The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs, 

The Vale, the three lone weirs, the youthful Thames? — 
This winter-eve is warm. 
Humid the air! leafless, yet soft as spring. 

The tender purple spray on copse and briars! 

And that sweet city with her dreaming spires. 
She needs not June for beauty's heightening. 

Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night! — 
Only, methinks, some loss of habit's power 

Befalls me wandering through this upland dim. 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 483 

Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any hour; 
Now seldom come I, since I came with him. 
That single elm-tree bright 

Against the west — I miss it! is it gone? 

We prized it dearly; while it stood, we said. 
Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not dead; 

While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on. 

Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here, 

But once I knew each field, each flower, each stick; 

And with the country-folk acquaintance made 
By barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick. 

Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first assay'd. 
Ah me! this many a year 
My pine is lost, my shepherd's holiday! 

Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heart 

Into the world and wave of men depart; 
But Thyrsis of his own will went away. 

It irk'd him to be here, he could not rest. 
He loved each simple jo}^ the country yields, 

He loved his mates; but yet he could not keep. 
For that a shadow lour'd on the fields. 

Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep. 
Some life of men unblest 
He knew, which made him droop, and fiU'd his head. 

He went; his piping took a troubled sound 

Of storms that rage outside our happy ground; 
He could not wait their passing, he is dead. 

So, some tempestuous morn in early June, 

When the year's primal burst of bloom is o'er. 

Before the roses and the longest day — 
When garden-walks and all the grassy floor 

With blossoms red and white of fallen May 
And chestnut-flowers are strewn — 
So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry, 

From the wet field, through the vext garden -trees. 

Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze: 
The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go l! 



484 BRITISH POEMS 

Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go? 
Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come on. 

Soon will the musk carnations break and swell, 
Soon shall we have gold-dusted snap-dragon. 

Sweet- William with his homely cottage-smell. 
And stocks in fragrant blow; 
Hoses that down the alleys shine afar. 

And open, jasmine-muffled lattices. 

And groups under the dreaming garden trees. 
And the full moon, and the white evening-star. 

He harkens not! light comer, he is flown! 
What matters it? next year he will return. 

And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days, 
With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling fern. 

And blue-bells trembling by the forest-ways. 
And scent of hay new-mown. 
But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see; 

See him come back, and cut a smoother reed, 

And blow a strain the world at last shall heed — 
For Time, not Corj^don, hath conquer'd thee! 

Alack, for Corydon no rival now! — 

But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate. 

Some good survivor with his flute would go. 
Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate; 

And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow. 
And relax Pluto's brow. 
And make leap up with joy the beauteous head 

Of Proserpine, among whose crowned hair 

Are flowers first open'd on Sicilian air. 
And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead. 

O easy access to the hearer's grace 

When Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine! 

For she herself had trod Sicilian fields. 
She knew the Dorian water's gush divine. 
She knew each lily white which Enna yields. 
Each rose with blushing face; 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 485 

She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain. 
But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard! 
Her foot the Cumner cowshps never stirr'd; 
And we should tease her with our plaint in vain! 

Well! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be, 
Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour 

In the old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd hill! 
Who, if not I, for questing here hath power? 

I know the wood which hides the daffodil, 
I know the Fyfield tree, 
I know what white, what purple fritillaries 

The grassy harvest of the river-fields, 

Above by Ensham, down by Sandford, yields. 
And what sedged brooks are Thames's tributaries; 

I know these slopes; who knows them if not I? — 
But many a dingle on the loved hill-side. 

With thorns once studded, old, white-blossom'd trees. 
Where thick the cowslips grew, and far descried 

High tower'd the spikes of purple orchises. 
Hath since our day put by 
The coronals of that forgotten time; 

Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy's team. 

And only in the hidden brookside gleam 
Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime. 

Where is the girl, who by the boatman's door. 
Above the locks, above the boating throng, 

Unmoor'd our skiff when through the Wytham flats. 
Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among 

And darting swallows and light water-gnats, 
We track'd the shy Thames shore? 
Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell 

Of our boat passing heaved the river-grass. 

Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass? — 
They all are gone, and thou art gone as well! 

Yes, thou art gone! and round me too the night 
In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade. 
I see her veil draw soft across the day. 



486 BRITISH POEMS 

I feel her slowly chilling breath invade 

The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent with gray 
I feel her finger light 

Laid pausefully upon life's headlong train; — 

The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew, 
The heart less bounding at emotion new, 

And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring again. 

And long the way appears, which seem'd so short 
To the less practised eye of sanguine j^outh; 

And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air. 
The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth, 

Tops in life's mornmg-sun so bright and bare! 
Unbreachable the fort 
Of the long-batter'd world uplifts its wall; 

And strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows. 

And near and real the charm of thy repose. 
And night as welcome as a friend would fall. 

But hush! the upland hath a sudden loss 
Of quiet! — Look, adown the dusk hill-side, 

A troop of Oxford hunters going home, 
As in old days, jovial and talking, ride! 

From hunting with the Berkshire hounds they come. 
Quick! let me fly, and cross 
Into yon further field! — 'Tis done, and see, 

Back'd by the sunset, which doth glorify 

The orange and pale violet evening-sky. 
Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree! the Tree! 

I take the omen! Eve lets down her veil. 

The white fog creeps from bush to bush about. 

The west unflushes, the high stars grow bright, 
And in the scatter'd farms the lights come out. 

I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night. 
Yet, happy omen, hail! 
Hear it from thy broad lucent Arnovale 

(For there thine earth-forgetting eyelids keep 

The morningless and unawakening sleep 
Under the flowery oleanders pale), 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 487 

Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there! — 

Ah, vain! These English fields, this upland dim, 

These brambles pale with mist engarlanded, 
That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him; 

To a boon southern country he is fled. 
And now in happier air. 
Wandering with the great Mother's train divine 

(And purer or more subtle soul than thee, 

I trow, the mighty Mother doth not see) 
Within a folding of the Apennine, 

Thou hearest the immortal chants of old! — 
Putting his sickle to the perilous grain 

In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king. 
For thee the Lityerses-song again 

Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing; 
Sings his Sicilian fold, 
His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes — 

And how a call celestial round him rang. 

And heavenward from the fountain-brink he sprang, 
And all the marvel of the golden skies. 

There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here 
Sole in these fields! yet will I not despair. 

Despair I will not, while I yet descry 
'Neath the mild canopy of English air 

That lonely tree against the western sky. 
Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear. 
Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee! 

Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the hay. 

Woods with anemones in flower till May, 
Know him a wanderer still; then why not me.'' 

A fugitive and gracious light he seeks, 
Shy to illumine; and I seek it too. 

This does not come with houses or with gold, 
With place, with honour, and a flattering crew; 
'Tis not in the world's market bought and sold — 
But the smooth-slipping weeks 



488 BRITISH POEMS 

Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired; 
Out of the heed of mortals he is gone. 
He wends unfollow'd, he must house alone; 

Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired. 

Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wast bound; 
Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour! 

Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest. 
If men esteemed thee feeble, gave thee power. 

If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest. 
And this rude Cumner ground, 
Its fir- topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields. 

Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful time. 

Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime! 
And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields. 

What though the music of thy rustic flute 
Kept not for long its happy, country tone; 

Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note 
Of men contention-tost, of men who groan. 

Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat — 
It fail'd, and thou wast mute! 
Yet hadst thou always visions of our light. 

And long with men of care thou couldst not stay. 

And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way. 
Left human haunt, and on alone till night. 

Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here! 
'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore, 

Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home. 
— Then through the great town's harsh, heart-wearying roar. 
Let in thy voice a whisper often come. 
To chase fatigue and fear: 
Why faintest thou! I wander d till I died. 

Roam on! The light we sought is shining still. 
Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet crowns the hill. 
Our Scholar travels yet the loved hillside. 



SIDNEY DOBELL 489 



WORLDLY PLACE 



Even in a palace, life may be led well I 

So spake the imperial sage, purest of men, 

Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den 

Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell, 

Our freedom for a little bread we sell, 

And drudge under some foolish master's ken 

Who rates us if we peer outside our pen — 

Match'd with a palace, is not this a hell? 

Even in a palace! On his truth sincere, 

W^ho spoke these words, no shadow ever came; 

And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame 

Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win, 

I'll stop, and say: "There were no succour here! 

The aids to noble life are all within." 



SIDNEY DOBELL [1824-1874] 

ENGLAND TO AMERICA 

Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us! O ye 

Who north or south, on east or western land, 

Native to noble sounds, say truth for truth. 

Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God 

For God; O ye who in eternal jouth 

Speak with a living and creative flood 

This universal English, and do stand 

Its breathing book; live worth^^ of that grand. 

Heroic utterance — parted, yet a whole. 

Far, yet unsevered, — children brave and free 

Of the great Mother-tongue, and \e shall be 

Lords of an Empire wide as Shakspere's soul, 

Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme. 

And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser's dream. 



490 BRITISH POEMS ' 

> 
I 

I 

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI [1828-1882] ! 

THE BLESSED DAMOZEL 

The blessed damozel leaned out 

From the golden bar of Heaven; ■ 
Her eyes were deeper than the depth 

Of waters stilled at even; ; 
She had three lilies in her hand, 

And the stars in her hair were seven. 

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, • 

No WTOught flowers did adorn, ; 

But a white rose of Mary's gift. 

For service meetly worn; | 

Her hair that lay along her back j 

Was yellow like ripe corn. ! 

Her seemed she scarce had been a day ; 

One of God's choristers; 

The wonder was not yet quite gone ; 

From that still look of hers; j 

Albeit, to them she left, her day ■ 

Had counted as ten years. i 

j 

(To one, it is ten years of years. | 

. . . Yet now, and in this place, J 

Surely she leaned o'er me — her hair j 

Fell all about my face. ... ; 

Nothing: the autumn fall of leaves. J 

The whole year sets apace.) i 

It was the rampart of God's house ! 

That she was standing on; i 

By God built over the sheer depth ^ 

The which is Space begun; 
So high, that looking downward thence 

She scarce could see the sun. 



DANTE GABRIEL ROSETTI 491 

It lies in Heaven, across the flood 

Of ether, as a bridge. 
Beneath, the tides of day and night 

With flame and darkness ridge 
The void, as low as where this earth 

Spins like a fretful midge. 

Around her, lovers, newly met 

'Mid deathless love's acclaims. 
Spoke evermore among themselves 

Their heart-remembered names; 
And the souls mounting up to God 

Went by her like thin flames. 

And still she bowed herself and stooped 

Out of the circling charm; 
Until her bosom must have made 

The bar she leaned on warm, 
And the lilies lay as if asleep 

Along her bended arm. 

From the fixed place of Heaven she saw 

Time like a pulse shake fierce 
Through all the world. Her gaze still strove 

Within the gulf to pierce 
Its path; and now she spoke as when 

The stars sang in their spheres. 

The sun was gone now ; the curled moon 

Was like a little feather 
Fluttering far down the gulf; and now 

She spoke through the still weather. 
Her voice was like the voice the stars 

Had when they sang together. 

(Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's song. 

Strove not her accents there. 
Fain to be hearkened? When those bells 

Possessed the mid-day air. 
Strove not her steps to reach my side 

Down all the echoing stair .'^) 



492 BRITISH POEMS 

"I wish that he were come to me. 
For he will come," she said. 

"Have I not prayed in Heaven? — on earth, 
Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd? 

Are not two prayers a perfect strength? 
And shall I feel afraid? 

"When round his head the aureole clings, 

And he is clothed in white, 
I'll take his hand and go with him 

To the deep wells of light; 
As unto a stream we will step down. 

And bathe there in God's sight. 

"We two will stand beside that shrine. 

Occult, withheld, untrod. 
Whose lamps are stirred continually 

With prayer sent up to God; 
And see our old prayers, granted, melt 

Each like a little cloud. 

"We two will lie i' the shadow of 

That living mystic tree 
Within whose secret growth the Dove 

Is sometimes felt to be. 
While every leaf that His plumes touch 

Saith His Name audibly. 

"And I myself will teach to him, 

I myself, lying so, 
The songs I sing here; which his voice 

Shall pause in, hushed and slow. 
And find some knowledge at each pause. 

Or some new thing to know." 

(Alas! We two, we two, thou say'st! 

Yea, one wast thou with me 
That once of old. But shall God lift 

To endless unity 
The soul whose likeness with thy soul 

Was but its love for thee?) 



DANTE GABRIEL ROSETTI 493 

"We two," she said, "will seek the groves 

Where the lady Mary is. 
With her five handmaidens, whose names 

Are five sweet symphonies, 
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, 

Margaret and Rosalys. 

"Circlewise sit the}^ with bound locks 

And foreheads garlanded; 
Into the fine cloth white like flame 

Weaving the golden thread. 
To fashion the birth-robes for them 

Who are just born, being dead. 

"He shall fear, haply, and be dumb: 

Then will I lay my cheek 
To his, and tell about our love. 

Not once abashed or weak: 
And the dear Mother will approve 

My pride, and let me speak. 

"Herself shall bring us, hand in hand. 

To Him round whom all souls 
Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads 

Bowed with their aureoles: 
And angels meeting us shall sing 

To their citherns and citoles. 

"There will I ask of Christ the Lord 

Thus much for him and me: — 
Only to live as once on earth 

W^ith Love, only to be. 
As then awhile, forever now 

Together, I and he." 

She gazed and listened and then said. 

Less sad of speech than mild, — 
"All this i# when he comes." She ceased. 

The light thrilled towards her, fill'd 



494 BRITISH POEMS 

With angels in strong level flight. 
Her eyes prayed, and she smil'd. 

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path 
Was vague in distant spheres: 

And then she cast her arms along 
The golden barriers, 

And laid her face between her hands. 
And wept. (I heard her tears.) 



SONNETS 

LOVESIGHT 

When do I see thee most, beloved one.'^ 

When in the light the spirits of mine eyes 

Before thy face, their altar, solemnize 

The worship of that Love through thee made known .^^ 

Or when in the dusk hours, (we two alone,) 

Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies 

Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies, 

And my soul only sees thy soul its own.'^ 

O love, my love! if I no more should see 

Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee. 

Nor image of thine eyes in any spring, — 

How then should sound upon Life's darkening slope 

The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope, 

The wind of Death's imperishable wing.^ 



INCLUSIVENESS 

The changing guests, each in a different mood. 

Sit at the roadside table and arise: 

And every life among them in likewise 

Is a soul's board set daily with new food. 

Wliat man has bent o'er his son's sleep, to brood 

How that face shall watch his when cold it lies.'* — 

Or thought, as his own mother kissed his eyes. 



DANTE GABRIEL ROSETTI 495 

Of what her kiss was when his father wooed? 

May not this ancient room thou sit'st in dwell 

In separate living souls for joy or pain? 

Nay, all its corners may be painted plain 

Where Heaven shows pictures of some life spent well; 

And may be stamped, a memory all in vain, 

Upon the sight of lidless ej^es in Hell. 



TRUE WOMAN 

To be a sweetness more desired than Spring; 

A bodily beauty more acceptable 

Than the wild rose-tree's arch that crowns the fell; 

To be an essence more environing 

Than wine's drained juice; a music ravishing 

More than the passionate pulse of Philomel; — 

To be all this 'neath one soft bosom's swell 

That is the flower of life: — how strange a thing! 

How strange a thing to be what Man can know 

But as a sacred secret! Heaven's own screen 

Hides her soul's purest depth and loveliest glow; 

Closely withheld, as all things most unseen, — 

The wave-bowered pearl, — the heart-shaped seal of green 

That flecks the snowdrop underneath the snow. 



KNOWN IN VAIN 

As two whose love, first foolish, widening scope, 

Knows suddenly, to music high and soft. 

The holy of holies; who because they scoffed 

Are now amazed with shame, nor dare to cope 

With the whole truth aloud, lest heaven should ope; 

Yet, at their meetings, laugh not as they laughed 

In speech; nor speak, at length; but sitting oft 

Together, within hopeless sight of hope 

For hours are silent: — So it happeneth 

When W^ork and Will awake too late, to gaze 



496 BRITISH POEMS 

After their life sailed by, and hold their breath. 
Ah! who shall dare to search through what sad maze 
Thenceforth their incommunicable ways 
Follow the desultory feet of Death? 



BODY S BEAUTY 

Of Adam's first wife, Lilith, it is told 

(The witch he loyed before the gift of Eve,) 

That, ere the snake's, her sw^eet tongue could deceive, 

And her enchanted hair was the first gold. 

And still she sits, young while the earth is old, 

And, subtly of herself contemplative. 

Draws men to watch the bright web she can weave. 

Till heart and body and life are in its hold. 

The rose and poppy are her flowers; for where 

Is he not found, O Lilith, whom shed scent 

And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare .^ 

Lo! as that youth's eyes burned at thine, so went 

Thy spell through him, and left his straight neck bent 

And round his heart one strangling golden hair. 



RETRO ME SATHANA 

Get thee behind me. Even as, heavy-curled, 

Stooping against the wind, a charioteer 

Is snatched from out his chariot b^^ the hair. 

So shall Time be; and as the void car, hurled 

Abroad by reinless steeds, even so the world: 

Yea, even as chariot-dust upon the air, 

It shall be sought and not found anywhere. 

Get thee behind me, Satan. Oft unfurled, 

Thy perilous wings can beat and break like lath 

Much mightiness of men to win thee praise. 

Leave these weak feet to tread in narrow ways. 

Thou still, upon the broad vine-sheltered path, 

Mayst wait the turning of the phials of wrath 

For certain years, for certain months and days. 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 497 



A SUPERSCRIPTION 

Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been; 
I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell; 
Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell 
Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between; 
Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen 
Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell 
Is now a shaken shadow intolerable. 
Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen. 
Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart 
One moment through thy soul the soft surprise 
Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs, — 
Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart 
Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart. 
Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes. 

[From The House of Life.] 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 

[1837-1909] 

SIIAKSPERE 

Not if men's tongues and angels' all in one 

Spake, might the word be said that might speak Thee. 

Streams, winds, woods, flowers, fields, mountains, yea, the sea. 

What power is in them all to praise the sun? 

His praise is this, — he can be praised of none. 

Man, woman, child, praise God for him; but he 

Exults not to be worshipped, but to be. 

He is; and, beting, beholds his work well done. 

All joy, all glory, all sorrow, all strength, all mirth. 

Are his: without him, day were night on earth. 

Time knows not his from time's own period. 

All lutes, all harps, all viols, all flutes, all lyres, 

Fall dumb before him ere one string suspires. 

All stars are angels; but the sun is God. 



498 BRITISH POEMS 



WHEN THE HOUNDS OF SPRING 

When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces. 
The mother of months in meadow or plain 

Fills the shadows and windy places 
With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; 

And the brown bright nightingale amourous 

Is half assuaged for Itylus, 

For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces. 
The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 

Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, 

Maiden most perfect, lady of light, 
With a noise of winds and many rivers. 

With a clamour of waters, and with might; 
Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet. 
Over the splendour and speed of thy feet, 
For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, 

Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night. 

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her. 
Fold our hands round her knees, and cling? 

O that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her. 
Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring! 

For the stars and the winds are unto her 

As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; 

For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her. 
And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing. 

For winter's rains and ruins are over. 

And all the season of snows and sins; 
The days dividing lover and lover. 

The light that loses, the night that wins; 
And time remembered is grief forgotten. 
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten. 
And in green underwood and cover 

Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 499 

The full streams feed on flower of rushes, 

Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, 
The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes 

From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; 
And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire. 
And the oat is heard above the lyre, 
And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes 

The chestnut-husk at the chestnut root. 

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night. 

Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid. 
Follows with dancing and fills with delight 

The Maenad and the Bassarid; 
And soft as lips that laugh and hide 
The laughing leaves of the trees divide. 
And screen from seeing and leave in sight 

The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair 

Over her eyebrows hiding her e3^es; 
The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 

Her bright breast shortening into sighs; 
The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves. 
But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare 

The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. 

[Chorus from Atalanta in Calydon.] 



A FORSAKEN GARDEN 

In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland, 

At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee. 
Walled round with rocks as an inland island, 

The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. 
A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses 

The steep square slope of the blossomless bed 
Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses 

Now lie dead. 



500 BRITISH POEMS 

The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken, 

To the low last edge of the long lone land. 
If a step should sound or a word be spoken. 

Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's hand? 
So long have the gray bare walks lain guestless, 

Through branches and briars if a man make way, 
lie shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restless 

Night and day. 

The dense hard passage is blind and stifled 

That crawls by a track none turn to climb 
To the strait waste place that the years have rifled 

Of all but the thorns that are touched not of time. 
The thorns he spares when the rose is taken; 

The rocks are left when he wastes the plain; 
The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken, 

These remain. 

Not a flower to be pressed of the foot that falls not; 

As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry; 
From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not, 

Could she call, there were never a rose to reply. 
Over the meadows that blossom and wither. 

Rings but the note of a sea-bird's song. 
Only the sun and the rain come hither 

All year long. 

The sun burns sear, and the rain dishevels 

One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath. 
Onl}^ the wind here hovers and revels 

In a round where life seems barren as death. 
Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping. 

Haply, of lovers none ever will know. 
Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping 

Years ago. 

Heart hand fast in heart as they stood, "Look thither," 
Did he whisper .^^ "Look forth from the flowers to the sea; 

For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither. 
And men that love lightly may die — But we.^" 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 501 

And the same wind sang, and the same waves whitened, 
And or ever the garden's last petals were shed. 

In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had lightened. 
Love was dead. 

Or they loved their life through, and then went whither? 

And were one to the end — but what end who knows? 
Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither, 

As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose. 
Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them? 

What love w^as ever as deep as a grave? 
They are loveless now as the grass above them 

Or the wave. 

All are at one now, roses and lovers. 

Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea. 
Not a breath of the time that has been hovers 

In the air now soft with a summer to be. 
Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafter 

Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep. 
When, as they that are free now of weeping and laughter. 

We shall sleep. 

Here death may deal not again forever; 

Here change may come not till all change end. 
From the graves they have made they shall rise up never, 

Who have left naught living to ravage and rend. 
Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing. 

When the sun and the rain live, these shall be; 
Till a last wind's breath upon all these blowing 

Roll the sea. 

Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble. 

Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink, 
Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble 

The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink, 
Here now in his triumph where all things falter. 

Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread. 
As a god self-slain on his own strange altar, 

Death lies dead. 



502 BRITISH POEMS 



LOVE AT SEA 

We are in love's land to-day; i 

Where shall we go? ! 

Love, shall we start or stay, i 

Or sail or row? | 

There's many a wind and way, 

And never a May but May; | 

We are in love's land to-day; ! 

Where shall we go? 

I 
i 

Our landwind is the breath i 

Of sorrows kissed to death 1 

And joys that were: 
Our ballast is a rose; 
Our way lies where God knows 

And love knows where. 

We are in love's land to-day — • 

I 

Our seamen are jBedged Loves, 1 

Our masts are bills of doves, I 

Our decks fine gold; j 

Our ropes are dead maids' hair, . 

Our stores are love-shafts fair ■ 

And manifold. I 

We are in love's land to-day — | 

Where shall we land you, sweet? 
On fields of strange men's feet. 

Or fields near home? 
Or where the fire-flowers blow, ' 

Or where the flowers of snow 

Or flowers of foam? 

We are in love's hand to-day — 

I 
Land me, she says, where love i i 



Shows but one shaft, one dove, 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 503 

One heart, one hand. 
— A shore Hke that, my dear. 
Lies where no man will steer, 

No maiden land. 

[Imitated from Theopiiile Gautier.] 



HYMN TO PROSERPINE 

AFTER THE PROCLAMATION IN ROME OF THE CHRISTIAN FAITH 

Vicisti, Galilcee 

I HAVE lived long enough, having seen one thing, that love 

hath an end; 
Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now and befriend. 
Thou art more than the day or the morrow, the seasons that 

laugh or that weep; 
For these give joy and sorrow; but thou, Proserpina, sleep. 
Sweet is the treading of wine, and sweet the feet of the 

dove; 
But a goodlier gift is thine than foam of the grapes or love. 
Yea, is not even Apollo, with hair and harpstring of gold, 
A bitter God to follow, a beautiful God to behold? 
I am sick of singing: the bays burn deep and chafe: I am fain 
To rest a little from praise and grievous pleasure and pain. 
For the Gods we know not of, who give us our daily breath. 
We know they are cruel as love or life, and lovely as death. 
O Gods dethroned and deceased, cast forth, wiped out in a 

day! 
From your wrath is the world released, redeemed from your 

chains, men say. 
New Gods are crowned in the city; their flowers have broken 

your rods; 
They are merciful, clothed with pity, the young compassion- 
ate Gods. 
But for me their new device is barren, the days are bare; 
Things long past over suffice, and men forgotten that were. 
Time and the Gods are at strife; ye dwell in the midst thereof. 
Draining a little life from the barren breasts of love. 



504 BRITISH POEMS 

I say to you, cease, take rest; yea, I say to you all be at peace, 
Till the bitter milk of her breast and the barren bosom shall 

cease. 
Wilt thou yet take all, Galilean ? but these thou shalt not take. 
The laurel, the palms and the psean, the breast of the nymphs 

in the brake; 
Breasts more soft than a dove's, that tremble with tenderer 

breath ; 
And all the wings of the Loves, and all the joy before death; 
All the feet of the hours that sound as a single lyre, 
Dropped and deep in the jflowers, with strings that flicker like 

fire. 
More than these wilt thou give, things fairer than all these 

things ? 
Nay, for a little we live, and life hath mutable wings. 
A little while and we die; shall life not thrive as it may.^^ 
For no man under the sky lives twice, outliving his day. 
And grief is a grievous thing, and a man hath enough of his 

tears : 
Why should he labour, and bring fresh grief to blacken his years ^ 
Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown 

gray from thy breath; 
We have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fulness 

of death. 
Laurel is green for a season, and love is sweet for a day; 
But love grows bitter with treason, and laurel outlives not May. 
Sleep, shall we sleep after all? for the world is not sweet in 

the end; 
For the old faiths loosen and fall, the new years ruin and 

rend. 
Fate is a sea without shore, and the soul is a rock that abides; 
But her ears are vexed with the roar and her face with the 

foam of the tides. 
O lips that the live blood faints in, the leavings of rack and 

rods! 

ghastly glories of saints, dead limbs of gibbeted Gods! 
Though all men abase them before you in spirits, and all knees 

bend, 

1 kneel not, neither adore you, but standing, look to the end; 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 505 

All delicate days and pleasant, all spirits and sorrows are cast 
Far out with the foam of the present that sweeps to the surf 

of the past: 
Where beyond the extreme sea-wall, and between the remote 

sea gates. 
Waste water washes, and tall ships founder, and deep death waits : 
Where, mighty with deepening sides, clad about with the seas 

as with wings, 
And impelled of invisible tides, fulfilled of unspeakable things. 
White-eyed and poisonous-finned, shark- toothed and serpen- 
tine-curled, 
Rolls, under the whitening wind of the future, the wave of 

the world. 
The depths stand naked in sunder behind it, the storms flee 

away; 
In the hollow before it the thunder is taken and snared as a 

prey; 
In its sides is the north-wind bound; and its salt is of all men's 

tears ; 
With light of ruin, and sound of changes, and pulse of years: 
With travail of day after day, and with trouble of hour upon 

hour; 
And bitter as blood is the spra}'; and the crests are as fangs 

that devour: 
And its vapour and storm of its steam as the sighing of spirits 

to be; 
And its noise as the noise in a dream; and its depth as the roots 

of the sea: 
And the height of its head as the height of the utmost stars 

of the air: 
And the ends of the earth at the might thereof tremble, and 

time is made bare. 
Will ye bridle the deep sea with reins, will ye chasten the high 

sea with rods.^ 
Will ye take her to chain her with chains, who is older than 

all ye Gods.'* 
All ye as a wind shall go by, as a fire shall ye pass and be past; 
Ye are Gods, and behold, ye shall die, and the waves be upon 

you at last. 



506 BRITISH POEMS 

In the darkness of time, in the deeps of the years, in the 

changes of things. 
Ye shall sleep as a slain man sleeps, and the world shall for- 
get you for kings. 
Though the feet of thine high priests tread where thy lords 

and our forefathers trod, 
Though these that were Gods are dead, and thou being dead 

art a God, 
Though before thee the thronged C^therean be fallen, and 

hidden her head. 
Yet thy kingdom shall pass, Galilean, thy dead shall go down 

to the dead. 
Of the maiden thy mother men sing as a goddess with grace 

clad around; 
Thou art throned where another was king; where another 

was queen she is crowned. 
Yea, once we had sight of another: but now she is queen, say 

these. 
Not as thine, not as thine was our mother, a blossom of flow- 
ering seas. 
Clothed round with the world's desire as with raiment, and 

fair as the foam. 
And fleeter than kindled fire, and a goddess, and mother of 

Rome. 
For thine came pale and a maiden, and sister to sorrow; but 

ours. 
Her deep hair heavily laden with odour, and colour of flowers. 
White rose of the rose-white water, a silver splendour, a 

flame. 
Bent down into us that besought her, and earth grew sweet 

with her name. 
For thine came weeping, a slave among slaves, and rejected; 

but she 
Came flushed from the full-flushed wave, and imperial, her 

foot on the sea. 
And the wonderful waters knew her, the winds and the view- 
less ways. 
And the roses grew rosier, and bluer the sea-blue stream of 

the bays. 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 507 

Ye are fallen, our lords, by what token? we wist that ye should 

not fall. 
Ye were all so fair that are broken; and one more fair than 

ye all. 
But I turn to her still, having seen she shall surely abide in 

the end; 
Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now and befriend. 

daughter of earth, of my mother, her crown and blossom 

of birth, 

1 am also, I also thy brother; I go as I came unto earth. 

In the night where thine ejes are as moons are in heaven, the 

night where thou art. 
Where the silence is more than all tunes, where sleep over- 
flows from the heart. 
Where the poppies are sweet as the rose in our world, and the 

red rose is white. 
And the wind falls faint as it blows with the fume of the flowers 

of the night. 
And the murmur of spirits that sleep in the shadow of Gods 

from afar 
Grows dim in thine ears and deep as the deep dim soul of a 

star. 
In the sweet low light of thy face, under heavens untrod by 

the sun. 
Let my soul with their souls find place, and forget what is 

done and undone. 
Thou art more than the Gods who number the days of our 

temporal breath; 
For these give labour and slumber; but thou, Proserpina, death. 
Therefore now at thy feet I abide for a season in silence. I 

know 
I shall die as my fathers died, and sleep as they sleep; even 

so. 
For the glass of the years is brittle wherein we gaze for a span 
A little soul for a little bears up this Corpse which is man.^ 
So long I endure, no longer; and laugh not again, neither weep; 
For there is no God found stronger than death; and death is 

a sleep. 

^ "^vxcipiov ei' ^acrrd^ov veKpov. — Epictetus. 



508 BRITISH POEMS 

COVENTRY PATMORE [1823-1896] 

THE REVELATION 

An idle poet, here and there, 

Looks round him; but, for all the rest. 
The world, unfathomably fair. 

Is duller than a witling's jest. 
Love wakes men, once a life-time each. 

They lift their heavy lids, and look; 
And, lo, what one sweet page can reach. 

They read with joy, then shut the book. 
And some give thanks, and some blaspheme, 

And most forget; but, either way. 
That and the Child's unheeded dream 

Is all the light of all their day. 



THE SPIRIT'S EPOCHS 

Not in the crises of events. 

Of compassed hopes, or fears fulfilled, 
Or acts of gravest consequence. 

Are life's delight and depth revealed. 
The day of days was not the day; 

That went before, or was postponed; 
The night Death took our lamp away 

Was not the night on which we groaned. 
I drew my bride, beneath the moon. 

Across my theshold; happy hour! 
But, ah, the walk that afternoon 

We saw the water-flags in flower! 

(Preludes from The Angel in the House.] 



GEORGE MEREDITH 509 

GEORGE MEREDITH [1828-1909] 

LUCIFER IN STARLIGHT 

On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose. 
Tired of his dark dominion, swung the fiend 
Above the rolling ball in cloud part screened, 
Where sinners hugged their spectre of repose. 
Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those. 
And now upon his western wing he leaned, 
Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careened. 
Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows. 
Soaring through wider zones that pricked his scars 
With memory of the old revolt from Awe, 
He reached a middle height, and at the stars. 
Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank. 
Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank, 
The army of unalterable law. 

LOVE'S DEATH 

In our old shipwrecked days there was an hour 
When, in the firelight steadily aglow. 
Joined slackly, we beheld the red chasm grow 
Among the clicking coals. Our library-bower 
That eve was left to us; and hushed we sat 
As lovers to whom Time is whispering. 
From sudden-opened doors we heard them sing; 
The nodding elders mixed good wine with chat. 
Well knew we that Life's greatest treasure lay 
With us, and of it was our talk. "Ah, yes! 
Love dies!" I said: I never thought it less. 
She yearned to me that sentence to unsay. 
Then when the fire domed blackening, I found 
Her cheek was salt against my kiss, and swift 
Up the sharp scale of sobs her breast did lift: — 
Now am I haunted by that taste! that sound. 

[From Modern Love.] 



510 BRITISH POEMS 



LOVE IN THE VALLEY 

Under yonder beech-tree single on the greensward, 

Couch'd with her arms behind her golden head, 
Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly. 

Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. 
Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her. 

Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow. 
Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me: 

Then would she hold me and never let me go? 

Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow. 

Swift as the swallow along the river's light 
Circleting the surface to meet his mirror'd winglets. 

Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight. 
Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops. 

Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun. 
She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer. 

Hard, but oh the glory of the winning were she won! 

When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror. 

Tying up her laces, looping up her hair, 

Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, | 

More love should I have, and much less care. ; 

When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror, I 

Loosening her laces, combmg down her curls, | 

Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, j 

I should miss but one for many boys and girls. j 



Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows 

Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon. 
No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder: 

Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon. 
Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid measure. 

Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less: 
Like the swinging Maj^-cloud that pelts the flowers with hail- 
stones 

Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless. 



GEORGE MEREDITH 511 

Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping 

Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star. 
Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried. 

Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown evejar. 
Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting: 

So were it with me if forgetting could be will'd. 
Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring. 

Tell it to forget the source that keeps it fill'd. 

Stepping down the hill with her fair companions, 

Arm in arm, all against the raying West, 
Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches. 

Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossess'd. 
Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awaking 

Whisper'd the world was; morning light is she. 
Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless; 

Fain would fling the net, and fain would have her free. 

Happy happy time, when the white star hovers 

Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew. 
Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness. 

Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew. 
Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepens 

Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells. 
Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret; 

Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells, 

Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and lighting 

Wild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along. 
Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant laughter 

Chill as a dull face frowning on a song. 
Ay, but shows the South- West a ripple-feather'd bosom 

Blown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascend 
Scaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunset 

Rich, deep like love in beauty without end. 

When at dawn she sighs, and like an infant to the window 
Turns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams. 

Beautiful she looks, like a white water-lily 

Bursting out of bud in havens of the streams. 



512 BRITISH POEMS 

When from bed she rises clothed from neck to ankle 
In her long nightgown sweet as boughs of May, 

Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden-lily 

Pure from the night, and splendid for the day. 

Mother of the dews, dark eye-lash'd twilight. 

Low-lidded twilight, o'er the valley's brim. 
Rounding on thy breast sings the dew-delighted skylark, 

Clear as though the dew-drops had their voice in him. 
Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the rayless planet. 

Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers. 
Let me hear her laughter, I would have her ever 

Cool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers. 

All the girls are out with their baskets for the primrose; 

Up lanes, woods through, they troop in joyful bands. 
My sweet leads: she knows not why, but now she loiters. 

Eyes the bent anemones, and hangs her hands. 
Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping. 

Coming the rose; and unaware a cry 
Springs in her bosom for odours and for colour, 

Covert and the nightingale; she knows not why. 

Kerchief'd head and chin she darts between her tulips. 

Streaming like a willow grey in arrowy rain: 
Some bend beaten cheek to gravel, and their angel 

She will be; she lifts them, and on she speeds again. 
Black the driving raincloud breasts the iron gateway: 

She is forth to cheer a neighbour lacking mirth. 
So when sky and grass met rolling dumb for thunder 

Saw I once a white dove, sole light of earth. 

Prim little scholars are the flowers of her garden, 

Train'd to stand in rows, and asking if they please. 
I might love them well but for loving more the wild ones: 

O my wild ones! they tell me more than these. 
You, my wild one, you tell of honied field-rose, 

Violet, blushing eglantine in life; and even as they. 
They by the wayside are earnest of your goodness. 

You are of life's, on the banks that line the way. 



GEORGE MEREDITH 513 

Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red rose, 

Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three. 
Parted is the window; she sleeps; the starry jasmine 

Breathes a falHng breath that carries thoughts of me. 
Sweeter unpossess'd, have I said of her my sweetest? 

Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the jasmine breathes, 
Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry jasmine 

Bears me to her pillow under white rose-wreaths. 

Yellow with birdfoot-trefoil are the grass-glades; 

Yellow with cinquefoil of the dew-grey leaf; 
Yellow with stonecrop; the moss-mounds are yellow; 

Blue-neck'd the wheat sways, yellowing to the sheaf. 
Green-yellow, bursts from the copse the laughing yaffle; 

Sharp as a sickle is the edge of shade and shine: 
Earth in her heart laughs looking at the heavens. 

Thinking of the harvest: I look and think of mine. 

This I may know: her dressing and undressing 

Such a change of light shows as when the skies in sport 
Shift from cloud to moonlight; or edging over thunder 

Slips a ray of sun; or sweeping into port 
White sails furl; or on the ocean borders 

White sails lean along the waves leaping green. 
Visions of her shower before me, but from eyesight 

Guarded she would be like the sun were she seen. 

Front door and back of the moss'd old farmhouse 

Open with the morn, and in a breezy link 
Freshly sparkles garden to stripe-shadow'd orchard. 

Green across a rill where on sand the minnows wink. 
Busy in the grass the early sun of summer 

Swarms, and the blackbird's mellow fluting notes 
Call my darling up with round and roguish challenge: 

Quaintest, richest carol of all the singing throats! 

Cool was the w^oodside; cool as her white dairy 

Keeping sweet the cream-pan; and there the boys from school, 

Cricketing below, rush'd brown and red with sunshine; 
O the dark translucence of the deep-eyed cool! 



514 BRITISH POEMS 

Spying from the farm, herself she fetch'd a pitcher 
Full of milk, and tilted for each in turn the beak. 

Then a little fellow, mouth up and on tiptoe. 

Said, "I will kiss you": she laugh'd and lean'd her cheek. 

Doves of the fir-wood walling high our red roof 

Through the long noon coo, crooning through the coo. 
Loose droop the leaves, and down the sleepy roadway 

Sometimes pipes a chaffinch; loose droops the blue. 
Cows flap a slow tail knee-deep in the river, 

Breathless, given up to sun and gnat and fly. 
Nowhere is she seen; and if I see her nowhere. 

Lightning may come, straight rains and tiger sky. 

O the golden sheaf, the rustling treasure-armful! 

O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced! 
O the treasure-tresses one another over 

Nodding! O the girdle slack about the waist! 
Slain are the poppies that shot their random scarlet 

Quick amid the wheat-ears: wound about the waist, 
Gather'd, see these brides of Earth one blush of ripeness! 

O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced! 

Large and smoky red the sun's cold disk drops, 

Clipp'd by naked hills, on violet shaded snow: 
Eastward large and still lights up a bower of moonrise, 

Whence at her leisure steps the moon aglow. 
Nightlong on black print-branches our beech-tree 

Gazes in this whiteness: nightlong could I. 
Here may life on death or death on life be painted. 

Let me clasp her soul to know she cannot die! 

Gossips count her faults; they scour a narrow chamber 

Where there is no window, read not heaven or her. 
"When she was a tiny," one aged woman quavers. 

Plucks at my heart and leads me by the ear. 
Faults she had once as she learn'd to run and tumbled: 

Faults of feature some see, beauty not complete. 
Yet, good gossips, beauty that makes holy 

Earth and air, may have faults from head to feet. 



GEORGE MEREDITH 515 

Hither she comes; she comes to me; she Hngers, 

Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in new surprise 
High rise the lashes in wonder of a stranger; 

Yet am I the light and living of her eyes. 
Something friends have told her fills her heart to brimming, 

Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, and tames. — 
Sure of her haven, O like a dove alighting. 

Arms up, she dropp'd: our souls were in our names. 

Soon will she lie like a white frost sunrise. 

Yellow oats and brown wheat, barley pale as rye. 
Long since your sheaves have yielded to the thresher. 

Felt the girdle loosen 'd, seen the tresses fly. 
Soon will she lie like a blood-red sunset. 

Swift with the to-morrow, green-wing'd Spring! 
Sing from the South-west, bring her back the truants, 

Nightingale and swallow, song and dipping wing. 

Soft new beech-leaves, up to beamy April 

Spreading bough on bough a primrose mountain, you 
Lucid in the moon, raise lilies to the sky fields. 

Youngest green transfused in silver shining through: 
Fairer than the lily, than the wild white cherry: 

Fair as in image my seraph love appears 
Borne to me by dreams when dawn is at my eyelids: 

Fair as in the flesh she swims to me on tears. 

Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, 

I would speak my heart out: heaven is my need. 
Every woodland tree is flushing like the dogwood. 

Flashing like the whitebeam, swaying like the reed. 
Flushing like the dogwood crimson in October; 

Streaming like the flag-reed South-west blown; 
Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted whitebeam: 

All seem to know what is for heaven alone. 



516 BRITISH POEMS 

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI [1830-1894] i 

SONG I 

When I am dead, my dearest. 

Sing no sad songs for me; j 

Plant thou no roses at my head, j 

Nor shady cypress-tree: ] 

Be the green grass above me ) 

With showers and dewdrops wet; ( 

And if thou wilt, remember, j 

And if thou wilt, forget. i 

I shall not see the shadows, 

I shall not feel the rain; ; 

I shall not hear the nightingale : 

Sing on, as if in pain: ' 
And dreaming through the twilight 

That doth not rise nor set, ; 
Haply I may remember. 

And haply may forget. ! 

UP-HILL s 

Does the road wind up-hill all the way.'' \ 

Yes, to the very end. ; 

Win the day's journey take the whole long day? i 

From morn to night, my friend. ■ 

But is there for the night a resting-place .^^ ; 

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. ; 

May not the darkness hide it from my face.'' ; 

You cannot miss that inn. . 

I 

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night .'^ 

Those who have gone before. j 

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? ! 

They will not keep you standing at that door. 



WILLIAM MORRIS 517 

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? 

Of labour you shall find the sum. 
Will there be beds for me and all who seek? 

Yea, beds for all who come. 



WILLIAM MORRIS [1834-1896] 
THE GILLIFLOWER OF GOLD 

A GOLDEN gilliflower to-day 
I wore upon my helm alway. 
And won the prize of this tourney. 
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee. 

However well Sir Giles might sit. 
His sun was weak to wither it, 
Lord Miles's blood was dew on it: 
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee. 

Although my spear in splinters flew, 
From John's steel-coat, my eye was true; 
I wheel'd about, and cried for you. 
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee. 

Yea, do not doubt my heart was good. 
Though my sword flew like rotten wood. 
To shout, although I scarcely stood. 
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee. 

My hand was steady too, to take 
My axe from round my neck, and break 
John's steel-coat up for my love's sake. 
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee. 

When I stood in my tent again. 
Arming afresh, I felt a pain 
Take hold of me, I was so fain — 

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee — 



518 BRITISH POEMS 

To hear: Honneur aux fils des preuxl 
Right in my ears again, and shew 
The gilhflower blossom'd new. 

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflcc. 

The Sieiir Guillaume against me came. 
His tabard bore three points of flame 
From a red heart; with Httle blame, — 
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee, — 

Our tough spears crackled up like straw; 
He was the first to turn and draw 
His sword, that had nor speck nor flaw; 
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee. 

But I felt weaker than a maid. 
And my brain, dizzied and afraid, 
AVithin my helm a fierce tune play'd, 
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee. 

Until I thought of your dear head, 
Bow'd to the gilliflower bed. 
The yellow flowers stain'd with red; 
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee. 

Crash! how the swords met: giroflee! 
The fierce tune in my helm would play, 
La belle! la belle! jaune giroflee! 

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee. 

Once more the great swords met again: 
"La belle! la belle!" but who fell then? 
Le Sieur Guillaume, who struck down ten; 
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee. 

And as with mazed and unarm'd face. 
Toward my own crown and the Queen's place. 
They led me at a gentle pace, — 

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee, — 



AYILLIAM MORRIS 519 

I almost saw your quiet head 
Bow'd o'er the giUiflower bed, 
The yellow flowers stain' d with red. 
Hah! hah I la belle jaune giroflee. 



THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS 

Had she come all the way for this. 
To part at last without a kiss? 
Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain 
That her own eyes might see him slain 
Beside the haystack in the floods? 

Along the dripping leafless woods, 
The stirrup touching either shoe. 
She rode astride as troopers do; 
With kirtle kilted to her knee. 
To which the mud splash'd wretchedly; 
And the wet dripp'd from every tree 
Upon her head and heavy hair. 
And on her eyelids broad and fair; 
The tears and rain ran down her face. 

By fits and starts they rode apace, 

And very often was his place 

Far off from her; he had to ride 

Ahead, to see what might betide 

When the roads cross'd; and sometimes, when 

There rose a murmuring from his men, 

Had to turn back with promises. 

Ah me! she had but little ease; 

And often for pure doubt and dread 

She sobb'd, made giddy in the head 

By the swift riding; while, for cold. 

Her slender fingers scarce could hold 

The wet reins; yea, and scarcely, too. 

She felt the foot within her shoe 



520 BRITISH POEMS 

Against the stirrup: all for this, 
To part at last without a kiss 
Beside the haystack in the floods. 

For when they near'd that old soak'd hay. 
They saw across the only way 
That Judas, Godmar, and the three 
Red running lions dismally 
Grinn'd from his pennon, under which 
In one straight line along the ditch. 
They counted thirty heads. 
So then 
While Robert turn'd round to his men. 
She saw at once the wretched end. 
And, stooping down, tried hard to rend 
Her coif the wrong way from her head. 
And hid her eyes; while Robert said: 
"Nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one; 
At Poictiers where we made them run 
So fast — why, sweet my love, good cheer. 
The Gascon frontier is so near, 
Nought after us." 

But: "O!" she said, 
"My God! my God! I have to tread 
The long way back without you; then 
The court at Paris; those six men; 
The gratings of the Chatelet; 
The swift Seine on some rainy day 
Like this, and people standing by, 
And laughing, while my weak hands try 
To recollect how strong men swim. 
All this, or else a life with him, 
For which I should be damned at last, 
Would God that this next hour were past!" 

le answer'd not, but cried his cry, 
"St. George for Marny!" cheerily; 
And laid his hand upon her rein. 
Alas! no man of all his train 



WILLIAM MORRIS 521 

Gave back that cheery cry again; 
And, while for rage his thumb beat fast 
Upon his sword-hilt, some one cast 
About his neck a kerchief long, 
And bound him. 

Then they went along 
To Godmar; who said: "Now, Jehane, 
Your lover's life is on the wane 
So fast, that, if this very hour 
You yield not as my paramour. 
He will not see the rain leave off: 
Nay, keep your tongue from gibe and scoff 
Sir Robert, or I slay you now." 

She laid her hand upon her brow. 

Then gazed upon the palm, as though 

She thought her forehead bled, and: "No!" 

She said, and turn'd her head away, 

As there was nothing else to say, 

And everything was settled: red 

Grew Godmar's face from chin to head: 

"Jehane, on yonder hill there stands 

My castle, guarding well my lands; 

What hinders me from taking you. 

And doing that I list to do 

To your fair wilful body, w^hile 

Your knight lies dead.^" 

A wicked smile 
Wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin, 
A long way out she thrust her chin: 
"You know that I should strangle you 
W^hile you were sleeping; or bite through 
Your throat, bj'^ God's help: ah!" she said. 
"Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid! 
For in such wise they hem me in, 
I cannot choose but sin and sin. 
Whatever happens: yet I think 
They could not make me eat or drink. 
And so should I just reach my rest." 



522 BRITISH POEMS 

"Nay, if you do not my behest, 

O Jehane! though I love you well," 

Said Godmar, "would I fail to tell 

All that I know?" "Foul lies," she said. 

"Eh? lies, my Jehane? by God's head. 

At Paris folks would deem them true! 

Do you know, Jehane, they cry for you: 

'Jehane the brown! Jehane the brown! 

Give us Jehane to burn or drown!' 

Eh! — gag me Robert! — sweet my friend, 

This were indeed a piteous end 

For those long fingers, and long feet, 

And long neck, and smooth shoulders sweet; 

An end that few men would forget 

That saw it. So, an hour yet: 

Consider, Jehane, which to take 

Of life or death!" 

So, scarce awake. 
Dismounting, did she leave that place. 
And totter some yards: with her face 
Turn'd upward to the sky she lay. 
Her head on a wet heap of hay. 
And fell asleep: and while she slept. 
And did not dream, the minutes crept 
Round to the twelve again; but she, 
Being waked at last, sigh'd quietly. 
And strangely childlike came, and said: 
"I will not." Straightway Godmar's head. 
As though it hung on strong wires, turn'd 
Most sharply round, and his face burn'd. 

For Robert, both his eyes were dry. 
He could not weep, but gloomily 
He seem'd to watch the rain; yea, too. 
His lips were firm; he tried once more 
To touch her lips; she reach'd out, sore 
And vain desire so tortured them, 
The poor gray lips, and now the hem 
Of his sleeve brush'd them. 



WILLIAM MORRIS 523 

With a start 
Up Godmar rose, thrust them apart; 
From Robert's throat he loosed the bands 
Of silk and mail; with empty hands 
Held out, she stood and gazed, and saw, 
The long bright blade without a flaw 
Glide out from Godmar's sheath, his hand 
In Robert's hair; she saw him bend 
Back Robert's head; she saw him send 
The thin steel down; the blow told well, 
Right backward the knight Robert fell, 
And moaned as dogs do, being half dead, 
Unwitting, as I deem: so then 
Godmar turn'd grinning to his men, 
Who ran, some five or six, and beat 
His head to pieces at their feet. 

Then Godmar turn'd again and said: 
"So, Jehane, the first fitte is read! 
Take note, my lady, that your way 
Lies backward to the Chatelet!" 
She shook her head and gazed awhile 
At her cold hands with a rueful smile. 
As though this thing had made her mad. 

This was the parting that they had 
Beside the haystack in the floods. 



524 BRITISH POEMS 

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON [1850-1894] 

THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE 

When I was sick and lay a-bed, 
I had two pillows at my head. 
And all my toys beside me lay 
To keep me happy all the day. 

And sometimes for an hour or so 
I watched my leaden soldiers go, 
With different uniforms and drills, 
Among the bed-clothes, through the hills; 

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets 
All up and down among the sheets; 
Or brought my trees and houses out, 
And planted cities all about. 

I was the giant great and still 
That sits upon the pillow-hill, 
And sees before him, dale and plain, 
The pleasant land of counterpane. 

[From A Child's Garden of Verses.] 

MY WIFE 

Trusty, dusky, vivid, true. 

With eyes of gold and bramble-dew, 

Steel-true and blade-straight, 
The great artificer 

Made my mate. 

Honour, anger, valour, fire; 

A love that life could never tire. 

Death quench or evil stir. 
The mighty master 

Gave to her. 



RUDYARD KIPLING 525 



Teacher, tender, comrade, wife, 
A fellow-farer true through Hfe, 

Heart-whole and soul-free 
The august father 

Gave to me. 



REQUIEM 

Under the wide and starry sky. 
Dig the grave and let me lie. 
Glad did I live and gladly die, 
And I laid me down with a will. 

This be the verse you grave for me; 
Here he lies where he longed to he; 
Home is the sailor, home from sea. 
And the hunter home from the hill. 



RUDYARD KIPLING [1865-] 

THE LAST CHANTEY 

"And there ivas no more sea."" 

Thus said the Lord in the Vault above the Cherubim 
Calling to the Angels and the Souls in their degree: 

"Lo! Earth has passed away 

On the smoke of Judgment Day, 
That Our word may be established shall We gather up the 



Loud sang the souls of the jolh', jolly mariners: 
"Plague upon the hurricane that made us furl and flee! 

But the war is done between us 

In the deep the Lord hath seen us — 
Our bones we'll leave the barracout, and God may sink the 



sea: 



I" 



526 BRITISH POEMS 

Then said the soul of Judas that betrayed Him: 
"Lord, hast thou forgotten Thy covenant with me? 

How once a year I go 

To cool me on the floe? 
And Ye take my day of mercy if Ye take away the sea!" 

Then said the soul of the Angel of the Off-shore Wind: 
(He that bits the thunder when the bull-mouthed breakers 
flee): 

"I have watch and ward to keep 

O'er Thy wonders on the deep. 
And Ye take mine honour from me if Ye take away the sea." 

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners: 
"Nay, but we were angry, and a hasty folk are we; 

If we worked the ship together 

Till she foundered in foul weather. 
Are we babes that we should clamour for a vengeance on the 



Then said the soul of the slaves that men threw overboard: 
"Kennelled in the picaroon a weary band were we; 

But Thy arm was strong to save. 

And it touched us on the wave. 
And we drowsed the long tides idle till Thy Trumpets tore, 
the sea." 

Then cried the soul of the stout Apostle Paul to God: 
"Once we frapped a ship, and she laboured woundily. 

There were fourteen score of these. 

And they blessed Thee on their knees. 
When they learned Thy Grace and Glory under Malta by the 



Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners. 
Plucking at their harps, and they plucked unhandily: 

"Our thumbs are rough and tarred, 

And the tune is something hard — 
May we lift a Deep-sea Chantey such as seamen use at sea?" 



RUDYARD KIPLING 527 

Then sang the souls of the gentlemen-adventurers — 
Fettered wrist to bar all for red iniquity: 

"Ho, we revel in our chains 

O'er the sorrow that was Spain's; 
Heave or sink it, leave or drink it, we were masters of the sea!" 

Up spake the soul of a grey Gothavn 'speckshioner — 
(He that led the flinchmg in the fleets of fair Dundee) 

"Oh, the ice-blink white and near. 

And the bowhead breaching clear! 
Will Ye whelm them all for wantonness that wallow in the 



Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners, 
Crying, "Under Heaven, here is neither lead nor lee! 

Must we sing forevermore" 

On the windless, glassy floor? 
Take back your golden fiddles and we'll beat to open sea! " 

Then stooped the Lord, and He called the good sea up to Him, 
And 'stablished its borders unto all eternity, 

That such as have no pleasure 

For to praise the Lord by measure. 
They may enter into galleons and serve Him on the sea. 

Sun, wind, and cloud shall fail not from the face of it. 
Stinging, ringing spindrift, nor the fulmar flying free; 

And the ships shall go abroad 

To the Glory of the Lord 
Who heard the silly sailor -folks and gave them back their sea! 



528 BRITISH POEMS 

RECESSIONAL 

(1897) 

God of our fathers, known of old, 
Lord of our far-flung battle-line. 

Beneath whose awful Hand we hold 
Dominion over palm and pine — 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet. 

Lest we forget — lest we forget! 

The tumult and the shouting dies; 

The captains and the kings depart: 
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice. 

An humble and a contrite heart. 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet. 
Lest we forget — lest we forget! 

Far-called, our navies melt away; 

On dune and headland sinks the fire: 
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! 
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet. 
Lest we forget — lest we forget! 

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose 
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe. 

Such boastings as the Gentiles use. 
Or lesser breeds without the Law — 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet. 

Lest we forget — lest we forget! 

For heathen heart that puts her trust 
In reeking tube and iron shard. 

All valiant dust that builds on dust. 
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard, 

For frantic boast and foolish word — 

Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! 



Amen. 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



PAGE 

Anonymous 124 

Arnold, Matthew .... 474 

Ballads, English and Scot- 
tish 21 

Barnfield, Richard ... 87 
Beaumont, Francis . . . 121 
Blake, William .... 296 
Breton, Nicholas .... 48 
Browne, William . . . .129 
Browning, Elizabeth Bar- 
rett 449 

Browning, Robert . . . 450 

Burns, Robert 285 

Byron, Lord, George Noel 
Gordon 355 

Campbell, Thomas .... 353 
Campion, Thomas . . . .102 

Carew, Thomas 144 

Cartwright, William . .156 
Chapman, George .... 78 
Chatterton, Thomas . . . 280 
Chaucer, Geoffrey ... 1 
Clough, Arthur Hugh . .471 
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor . 320 
Collins, William .... 238 
CoNGREVE, William . . . 198 
Cowley, Abraham .... 147 
CowPER, William .... 270 
Crabbe, George .... 281 
Crashaw, Richard . . . 157 



Daniel, Samuel . . . 


. 80 


Davenant, Sir William . 


. 147 


Davies, Sir John . . . 


. 106 


Dekker, Thomas . . . 


. 107 


Denham, Sir John . . . 


. 151 


DoBELL, Sidney .... 


. 489 


Donne, John 


. 113 


Drayton, Michael . . 


. 81 



PAGE 

Drummond, William . . .126 

Dryden, John 191 

Dunbar, William .... 19 
Dyer, John 228 

Elliot, Jane 268 

Fitzgerald, Edward . . . 447 
Fletcher, Giles . . . .122 
Fletcher, John 120 

Gascoigne, George ... 43 

Gay, John 221 

Goldsmith, Oliver .... 256 

Gray, Thomas 245 

Greene, Robert .... 78 

Habington, William . . . 146 
Henryson, Robert ... 15 
Herbert, George .... 139 
Herrick, Robert .... 131 

Hood, Thomas 412 

Howard, Henry, Earl of 
Surrey 42 

JoNsoN, Ben 109 

Keats, John 368 

Kingsley, Charles . . . 473 
Kipling, Rudyard .... 525 

Lamb, Charles 348 

Landor, Walter Savage . 349 

Lodge, Thomas 76 

Lovelace, Richard . . . 158 

Lydgate, John 14 

Lyly, John 76 

Marlowe, Christopher . . 85 
Marvell, Andrew . . . .186 
Meredith, George . . . 509 



529 



530 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



Milton, John 
Moore, Thomas 
Morris, William 



Nashe, Thomas 



Patmore, Coventry 
Peele, George . . 
Philips, Ambrose . 
Pope, Alexander . 
Prior, Matthew 

QuARLES, Francis . 

Raleigh, Sir Walter 
Rossetti, Christina 
RossETTi, Dante Gabriel 



. 165 
. 354 
. 517 



102 



. 508 
. 77 
. 208 
. 209 
. 200 

. 138 

. 49 
. 516 
. 490 



Sackville, Thomas, Lord 

buckhurst 45 

Scott, Sir Walter .... 342 
Sedley, Sir Charles . . . 189 
Shakspere, William ... 89 
Shelley, Percy Bysshe . . 386 
Shenstone, William . . . 235 

Shirley, James 143 

Sidney, Sir Philip .... 51 
Skelton, John 20 



Southey, Robert .... 346 

Southwell, Robert ... 79 

Spenser, Edmund . ... 55 

Stevenson, Robert Louis . 524 

Suckling, Sir John . . . 154 

Swift, Jonathan .... 202 
Swinburne, Algernon 

Charles 497 

Tennyson, Alfred, Lord . 413 

Thomson, James .... 223 



Vaughan, Henry 



. 160 



Waller, Edmund . . 


. . 152 


Warton, Thomas . . 


. . 269 


Webster, John . . . 


. . 124 


WiLMOT, John, Earl 


of 


Rochester .... 


. . 190 


WiNCHiLSEA, Lady . . 


. . 199 


Wither, George . . 


. . 128 


Wolfe, Charles . . 


. . 367 


Wordsworth, William 


. . 299 


WoTTON, Sir Henry . 


. . 105 


Wyatt, Sir Thomas 


. . 39 



Young, Edward 



232 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! 286 

A golden gilliflower to-day 517 

Ah, Sunflower, weary of time 297 

Ah what avails the sceptred race 349 

All in a moment through the gloom were seen 180 

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls 358 

And wilt thou leave me thus? 39 

An hideous hole all vast, withouten shape 45 

An idle poet, here and there 508 

"Artemidora! Gods invisible 350 

As after noon, one summer's day, 201 

As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow 79 

As it fell upon a day 87 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows 144 

A slumber did my spirit seal; 304 

A stately pallace built of squared bricke, 61 

As two whose love, first foolish, widening scope, 495 

As under cover of departing day 447 

A sweet disorder in the dress 131 

At Beauty's bar as I did stand, 43 

A tear bedews my Delia's eye 235 

At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time 470 

Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughtered Saints, whose bones 179 

Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things 213 

A wanderer is man from his birth 474 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth 368 

Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe 116 

Behold her; single in the field, 305 

Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still 344 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind! 94 

Borgia, thou once wert almost too august 351 

Break, break, break 426 

Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art — 386 

Bury the Great Duke 439 

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren 124 

Calm is the morn without a sound 435 

Calme was the day, and through the trembling ayre 55 

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, 80 

Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry 131 

Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, 107 

Come away, come away. Death 95 

Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me; 105 

Come, dear children, let us away; 477 

Come live with me and be my Love 85 

Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, 51 

"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land 418 

Cupid and my Campaspe play'd 76 

531 



532 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

Dear friend, far off, my lost desire 437 

Dear love, for nothing less than thee 114 

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee 119 

Does the road wind up-hill all the way? 516 

Drink to me only with thine eyes, 109 

Earth has not anything to show more fair: 311 

E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks, 138 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless mind! 357 

Even in a palace, life may be led well! 489 

Even such is time, that takes in trust 51 

Exert thy voice, sweet harbinger of Spring ! 199 

Fair Amoret is gone astray; 198 

Fair and fair, and twice so fair 77 

Fair Dafifodils! we weep to see 133 

Fair stood the wind for France, 81 

Fear death? — to feel the fog in my tliroat, 469 

Fear no more the heat o' th' sun, 96 

Five years have past; five summers, with the length 299 

Flee fro the prees, and dwelle with sothfastnesse, 13 

Flower in the crannied wall 446 

Forget not yet the tried intent 39 

Friendship, like love, is but a name 221 

From harmony, from heavenly harmony 191 

Full fathom five thy father lies; 98 

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may 132 

Get thee behind me. Even as, heavy-curled 496 

Get up, get up for shame! The blooming mom 136 

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, 49 

Go and catch a falling star, 113 

God Lyseus, ever young 120 

God of our fathers, known of old 528 

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand 449 

Go, lovely Rose! 153 

Grow old along with me! 463 

Had she come all the way for this 519 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! 387 

Bappy the man, whose wish and care 209 

Happy those early days, when I 160 

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings 96 

Haymakers, rakers, reapers, and mowers, 107 

Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes 450 

Hear me, O God! 112 

Hence, loathed Melancholy, 165 

Hence, vain deluding Joys, 169 

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, 236 

Here lies a man much wronged in his hopes, 130 

Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King, 190 

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, 270 

Here, wandering long, amid these frowning fields 281 

Her eyes the glowworm lend thee, 133 

Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be, 52 

How changed is here each spot man makes or fills! 482 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways 449 

How happy is he born and taught 105 

How like a winter hath my absence been 100 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 533 

PAGE 

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august 232 

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest 238 

How vainly men themselves amaze 187 

I arise from dreams of thee 396 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers 390 

I cannot change, as others do, 190 

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song 239 

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange 449 

If poisonous minerals, and if that tree 119 

If to be absent were to be 158 

I have had playmates, I have had companions, 348 

I have lived long enough, having seen one thing, that love hath an end ; 503 

I long to talk with some old lover's ghost 115 

I met a traveller from an antique land 387 

In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland, 499 

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side 223 

In our old shipwrecked days there was an hour 509 

In the merry month of May 48 

In this little urn is laid 138 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 320 

Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom 351 

I said — Then, dearest, since 'tis so 454 

I saw Eternity the other night, 163 

I sent for Ratcliffe; was so ill 202 

Is there for honest poverty 295 

I strove with none; for none was worth my strife 352 

I struck the board, and cry'd "No more! 139 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 311 

It is an ancient Mariner 321 

It little profits that an idle king 423 

It was a dismal and a fearful night, 149 

It was a summer evening, 346 

I've heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking, 268 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 306 

I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! 308 

I weep for Adonais — he is dead! 397 

John Anderson my jo, John, 294 

Know, Celia, since thou art so proud, 145 

Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting 126 

Lay a garland on my hearse 121 

Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust; 54 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 101 

Like to a silkworm of one year 129 

Little lamb, who made thee? 298 

Live in these conquering leaves: live all the same; 157 

Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been; 497 

Lords, knights, and 'squires, the numerous band, 200 

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell 134 

Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back, 143 

Love in my bosom, like a bee, 76 

Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours 246 

Lyke as a ship, that through the ocean wyde 60 

Maid of Athens, ere we part 355 

Man is so sovereign and divine a state, 78 

Martial, the things that do attain 43 

Men call you fayre, and you doe credit it 60 



534 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

Methought I saw my late espoused saint 180 

Milton's the prince of poets — so we say; 364 

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: 312 

Mirry Margaret 20 

More than most faire, full of the living fire 60 

Mortality, behold and fear! 121 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, 368 

Music, when soft voices die 386 

My eye, descending from the hill, surveys 151 

My Fader above, beholdyng thy mekenesse, 14 

My galley charged with forgetfulness 42 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 382 

My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie, 289 

My love in her attire doth shew her wit 125 

My lute, awake! perform the last 40 

My sheep are thoughts, which I both guide and serve; 54 

" My tongue cannot express my grief for one, 89 

Never seek to tell thy love 297 

No more, my Dear, no more these counsels try; 52 

Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us ! O ye 489 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note 367 

Not, Celia, that I juster am 189 

Not if men's tongues and angels' all in one 497 

Not in the crises of events 508 

O blithe New-comer! I have heard 304 

O'er Cornwall's cliflfs the tempest roared, 269 

Of Adam's first wife, Lilith, it is told 496 

O for some honest lover's ghost 154 

Of this fair volume which we World do name 127 

Oh Galuppi, Baldassare, this is very sad to find! 457 

Oh, that those lips had language! Life has passed 275 

Oh, to be in England 451 

Oh, Winter, ruler of the inverted year 272 

O living will that shalt endure 438 

" O Mary, go and call the cattle home 473 

O Mistress mine, where are you roaming? 95 

O, my luve is like a red, red rose, 287 

On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose 509 

On either side the river lie 413 

On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood 86 

O only Source of all our light and life 471 

O, saw ye bonie Lesley 285 

O saw ye not fair lues? 412 

O ! synge untoe mie roundelaie 280 

Out upon it! I have loved 155 

O waly, waly up the bank 124 

O, wert thou in the cauld blast 294 

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 384 

"O where have you been, my long, long love, 36 

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being 393 

Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives 350 

Phoebus, arise! 126 

Phyllis! why should we delay 152 

Poor, little, pretty, fluttering thing, 201 

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth 101 

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair 109 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 535 

PAGE 

"Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says, ....... 22 

Roses at first were white 131 

Rough wind, that meanest loud 411 

" Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! 252 

Say, Earth, why hast thou got thee new attire 122 

Say not the struggle nought availeth, 471 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 288 

See the chariot at hand here of Love, 110 

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? 98 

Shall I, wasting in despair 128 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 303 

She walks in beauty, like the night 357 

She was a Phantom of delight 307 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 290 

Silent Nymph, with curious eye! 228 

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea 100 

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part 81 

Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears: Ill 

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 426 

So forth issew'd the seasons of the yeare: 70 

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; 102 

St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was! 370 

Stand close around, ye Stygian set 349 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! 312 

Still to be neat, still to be drest, Ill 

Strew on her roses, roses 474 

Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 433 

Sunset and evening star, 447 

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain; 257 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright 139 

Swet rois of vertew and of gentilness 19 

Swiftly walk over the western wave 395 

Take, O, take those lips away 96 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 425 

Tell me not. Sweet, I am unkind 158 

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, 452 

That time of year thou mayst in me behold 100 

That which her slender waist confined 153 

The blessed damozel leaned out 490 

The changing guests, each in a different mood, 494 

The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 248 

The glories of our blood and state 143 

The grey sea and the long black land ; 453 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! 361 

The king sits in Dumferling toune, 21 

The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest, 147 

The last and greatest herald of Heaven's King 128 

The man of life upright, 104 

The merry World did on a day 140 

The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth 53 

The Perse owt oflf Northombarlonde, 27 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 358 

There is a garden in her face 102 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream 314 

Ther was in Asie, in a gret citee 7 

The sea is calm to-night, 481 

These, as they change. Almighty Father, these 225 

The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, 42 



536 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

The thirsty earth soaks up the rain 147 

The twentieth year is well-nigh past, 274 

The wish that of the living whole ' . . . 436 

The world is too much with us; late and soon 310 

They are all gone into the world of Light 161 

The year's at the spring 451 

This hindir yeir I hard be tald, 15 

This little vault, this narrow room, 146 

Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white, 103 

Thou art too hard for me in Love 142 

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness 380 

Thou that hast fashioned twice this soul of ours, 106 

Three poets, in three distant ages born, 198 

Thus said the Lord in the Vault above the Cherubim, 525 

Thy voice is on the rolling air; 438 

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright 298 

Timely blossom. Infant fair, 208 

To be a sweetness more desired than Spring; 495 

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 238 

Toll for the Brave! 278 

To me 'twas given to die: to thee 'tis given 202 

To see the world in a grain of sand, 297 

To the Lords of Convention 't was Claver'se who spoke 342 

Trusty, dusky, vivid, true 524 

'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won 193 

'Twas on a lofty vase's side 245 

Underneath this sable hearse 130 

Under the greenwood tree 93 

Under the wide and starry sky, 525 

Under yonder beech-tree single on the greensward, 510 

We are in love's land to-day; 502 

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan; 120 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, 78 

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, 292 

Well then! I now do plainly see 148 

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote 1 

Whenas in silks my Julia goes 132 

When beasts could speak, (the learned say . . 202 

When do I see thee most, beloved one? 494 

When God at first made man 141 

When he, who adores thee, has left but the name 354 

When I am dead, my dearest 516 

When I bethinke me on that speech whyl-eare 75 

When I consider how my light is spent, 179 

When I have fears that I may cease to be 369 

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced 99 

When, in disgrace with fortime and men's eyes, 98 

When I was sick and lay abed 524 

When lovely woman stoops to folly 256 

When love with unconflned wings 159 

When Robin Hood and Little John 25 

When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces 498 

When the old flaming Prophet climb'd the sky 156 

When to her lute Corinna sings 103 

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 99 

When we two parted 356 

Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? 342 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go? 472 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 537 

PAGE 

Where the bee sucks, there suck I: 97 

Where the remote Bermudas ride 186 

Whether on Ida's shady brow, 296 

Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm 116 

Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see 210 

Who is Silvia? what is she, 93 

Who shall awake the Spartan fife 241 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 156 

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun 118 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! 51 

Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build, . . . 459 

Ye banks and braes and streams around 291 

Ye banks and braes o' bonie Doon 287 

Ye blushing virgins happy are 146 

Ye mariners of England 353 

Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more 173 



AUG 22 1912 



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